


Bound

by KameTerra



Series: Bound-verse [1]
Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Adult Situations, Angst, Drama & Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-29
Updated: 2010-04-02
Packaged: 2019-08-19 22:09:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 85,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16543217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KameTerra/pseuds/KameTerra
Summary: Friendship, family, love, and honor are the binding forces of life. But when life gets messy, some bonds sever too easily while others seem to hold you too tight. Features Don & April, but not in the way you might think!  2003/2007-verse blend.





	1. Lies of Omission

April glanced at her phone as it rang, and got up before answering it. "Hello?"

" _Hey April, it's Don."_

"I know," she laughed, shrugging into a robe and tying the belt at her waist. "Little thing known as 'caller ID.'"

" _Oh, right,"_ he chuckled back _. "We've had cell phones for how long? And still I manage to forget."_

"Yeah, just force of habit," she replied as she walked into the living room. Then she hesitated for the span of a single, painful heartbeat before saying in an upbeat voice, "Anyway, what's up?"

" _Well, I've been working on this latest program of mine—the one I told you about? And I've reached a point where I can head one of two directions. I just can't seem to decide which way to go; either one would be a significant time expenditure and I'd like to avoid second guessing myself later. So…I was hoping you could come down and give me your opinion. I mean, if you're not busy…"_

April closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose as she listened to him. "Oh, Donny, you know I'd love to…it's just that… right now's not really a good time…"

" _Oh, right, that's cool,"_ he said hurriedly. _"I didn't mean this instant or anything… just… whenever."_

"Sure, I'll take a rain check then, okay?" She was pacing nervously around the room as she spoke, wishing she could find some mundane task to perform in order to give her nervous energy some outlet.

" _K, sure. No problem."_

She could hear his hesitation—could practically  _see_  it for that matter—and she knew he was debating whether or not to say anything more. Finally he went on.  _"April…are you doing okay? We haven't seen much of you lately, and I know things have probably been tough."_

April momentarily halted her aimless wandering around the room and leaned back against the wall, squeezing her eyes shut.  _Oh, you don't know the half of it_ , she thought to herself. But all she said was, "Yeah, it's been… kinda crazy."

She hated this. Hated how awkward their once easy conversations had become—like hobbling along on a wooden leg when you remembered so clearly how you used to be able to run. She knew he had to be aware of the difference as well, and she guessed that the only reason he didn't bring it up was because he was trying to give her space.

There was a pause on his end before he said hesitantly, " _I could come up there if you want, if you could use some company."_

She smiled sadly. Don was so sweet and so concerned for her… he always had been. And yet, even as worried as he probably was, he didn't push her or try to force help on her—he respected her independence and her ability to make her own decisions. It made what she was doing seem like a crime, if not a downright sin.

"Thanks, Don, I appreciate the offer—I really do. But things are just a bit… complicated right now. I need some time to figure stuff out." She resumed her pacing, chewing on her lower lip as she moved about.

" _Yeah, I understand,"_ Donatello replied slowly, and guilt lashed her like the tentacles of a jellyfish at his words; she knew he couldn't possibly understand when she was only showing him part of the picture.

"But I'll come by soon and look over what you have," April continued. "I promise. Maybe we can all have a movie night or something?" she suggested.

" _Great, yeah. That'd be… great,"_ Don said, and the false enthusiasm he injected into the statement stood out like phosphor under a black light. After another slight pause he said,  _"Well, if you change your mind, or if you just need to talk or anything…well, you know."_

"I know. Thanks, Donny—and try not to worry about me, I'm fine… I mean, I'm  _going_  to be fine…" But even as she said the words she knew it was no use—he would continue to worry about her despite any number of reassurances. She sighed inaudibly.

" _I know you will be,_ " he responded confidently.

She ran a hand through her hair. "All right, then. I'll call you soon."

" _Okay, April, you take care,_ " Don said.

April ended the call, and exhaled loudly as she collapsed onto the sofa she had ended up next to. The conversation had lasted barely a couple of minutes, and yet she felt completely drained.

"That was Don," she said finally.

"So I gathered."

She placed the cell phone on the coffee table, and pressed the heel of her hand to her temple. "This  _sucks_ ," she stated fiercely, blinking back sharp needles of moisture that pricked behind her eyes. Then she felt the couch cushion sink a little as he sat down next to her, and a strong hand squeezed her shoulder gently.

"I know," he said simply.

April continued. "I mean, it made sense at first not to say anything, but now… I can't keep doing this. I feel like I'm lying to him, and he's one of my best friends."

She finally looked up, meeting his eyes decisively. "We need to tell him."

He opened his mouth to utter the excuse held at ready on his tongue, but the words fell away when he saw such pronounced sadness lacing through her shining green eyes. Instead, as if from a great distance, he heard himself simply say "okay". She continued to look at him, and he realized he wasn't going to get off that easy. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly as dry as the interior of an oven.

"Tomorrow. I'll tell him tomorrow."

She searched his eyes a moment longer, then nodded once to herself. "We'll tell him together."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No. I'll do it…he's  _my_  brother."

-=-=-=-=-=-=-


	2. Simple Machines

Donatello hummed happily as he riffled through the mound of papers in the drawer of his lab desk. It was a disorderly hodgepodge of typed sheets, magazines with notes written in the margins, paper napkins full of coffee stains and hastily scribbled diagrams, notebook pages full of plans, and the occasional scrap of paper with nothing more than a few sentences written on it. There was no real order to the pile—he simply had to look through everything until he found what he was looking for. But at least he knew it would be somewhere in the stack.

Ideas and solutions often came to him at completely random, unexpected times, and he tended to grab whatever was available in order to jot things down before they left his head. But since that made it easy to lose things, and Don didn't have the time to transcribe everything, he was very careful to make sure everything at least ended up in this drawer. So it wasn't the most orderly system, but Don wasn't particularly fussy about order until it came to actually working on a specific project. That was when being organized and fastidious actually mattered.

This time at least, Don knew vaguely what he was looking for—these particular notes had actually been written on sheets of notebook paper (imagine that), and his eyes scanned rapidly across each one he encountered in the pile. Ah! There they were! He seized the sheets and held them up to the light, flipping them over to make sure there weren't more pages. He nodded happily and closed the drawer, leaving his lab and grabbing a box of tools as he proceeded to the back of the lair where the shell sleds were stowed. He set the tools down, pulled the covering off one of the sleds, and then glanced back down at the plans in his hand.

It was a lot of work to do, but he didn't mind—it wasn't like there was any rush on something like this. He had chosen to begin the improvements for the shell sleds because it fell under the category of what he considered fun and relaxing. During his afternoon break he had fiddled with his program some more, but had ended up frustrated again. By beginning these plans at least he wouldn't spend the evening hunched in front of a computer screen, and it would give his mind a break from thinking in code. Donatello furrowed his brow as that brought to mind his request for April's help the previous day, and his heart gave a little swoop at the thought.

He was worried about her, and he knew he wasn't hiding it very well. But then, why should he? They were friends—he was allowed to be concerned about her, wasn't he? Sure… but then lately, things had been different. He was good at being patient, and he tried hard to be understanding of what she was going through even though he didn't have any personal experience in that regard, but he was nevertheless slightly hurt that she didn't seem to want his help. His stomach lurched suddenly as it occurred to him that maybe she suspected he had a dual interest… but all he really wanted was for her to be happy.

Admittedly, he had never really understood what April and Casey saw in each other—or rather, what April saw in  _Casey_ —but it wasn't like he'd  _wanted_  them to break up… After all, the two had been an item from almost the very beginning. But even though he tried to silence it, a small part of him whispered that now that they had split up, once she'd had some time to recover, April might begin to see him in a different light. He allowed himself to fantasize for a moment, but then buried the thought, telling himself to take things one step at a time. Right now, his primary responsibility was just to be there for her as a friend... in the event that she needed him.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Don read over all of his plans again, and then began studying the sled to visualize exactly how he would make them work. Next he selected a screwdriver from the box to open up some panels on the sled—he needed to take some things apart first, and then he could begin making a list of materials he needed. Most of the little things—wire, screws, and other common hardware—he probably already had. For other items, he knew he'd have to scour the junkyards for weeks, and even then he'd be lucky to find exactly what he was looking for. But that was okay. Sometimes in the process of searching, he'd find other useful items that would otherwise have been overlooked. Doubtless some of the materials would have to be purchased, but since Don didn't have a job anymore he wanted to make his savings stretch as far as possible.

As he unscrewed the panels, setting each screw on the floor nearby as he freed it, he thought once again how incredible machines were. Who could ever think they were boring? Don could peer in to the complex innards of the shell sled, but for him each component of it was visualized separately—and it never ceased to amaze him that most complex machines were made by combining the six simplest ones. Those screws on the floor were one example. He chuckled a little, thinking back to the events of that morning's group training session, and he let his mind wander as he worked.

It had been a particularly good session—for him, anyway—because Master Splinter had announced they would be practicing with the bo staff. Their sensei had asked Donatello to essentially lead the group by teaching some of the more advanced attacks and how to counter them. It was always, ah,  _interesting_  when the training focused on someone's particular specialty. Everyone had their own reactions and teaching styles.

Leonardo, of course, just tried his hardest no matter what. When practicing with other weapons the only real difference, besides the reduction in skill as compared with his familiar swords, was that his face displayed an even more intense expression. If the group training was with 'chucks or sai, Mike and Raph took savage glee in defeating Leo in as many bouts as possible, never letting up and hoping to take him down a peg or two in the process. They probably expected Leo to grow frustrated or indignant, as they would have, but the turtle in blue rarely did. Don wondered if the other two would ever catch on—Leo  _preferred_  it that way. He simply didn't care about being knocked down; each failed approach was carefully catalogued in that strategic brain of his and chalked up as a lesson well-learned. One day, Don thought shrewdly, Leo might just master  _all_  the weapons. The leader's katana lessons were always hard, too, because his skill with the blades combined with his natural grace made the most difficult maneuvers look deceptively easy.

Michelangelo practiced all the other weapons with his usual superb coordination, but he never stopped lamenting how inferior they all were to his own nunchakus. When his turn to teach came around, his whole goal seemed to be to make everyone look foolish. Oh, he didn't blow it off—Master Splinter made sure of that by checking in on them occasionally—but Mikey still managed to do little things to add "color" to the lesson. For instance, he might teach them an intricate attack combination, walking them through it and praising them all for doing so well; then he would do it along with them, adding so many showy twirls and speeding up so much that he made them all look like B grade actors in some lame martial arts movie. Then to add insult to injury, he would strike his Battle Nexus Champion statue pose, earning a smack upside the head from whoever was nearest. Another time he did almost the complete opposite—he taught them a combo laden with frills and unnecessarily complex maneuvers, but then when he asked them to attack him he would disarm them deftly with the simplest of strikes, telling them to quit trying to show off just as Splinter walked in.

Raphael hated teaching—he didn't like being the center of attention, and he'd be the first to admit he just didn't have the patience for it. Therefore his sessions were more of the "do or die" variety—he didn't spend a lot of time breaking things down, but it came across fairly well once they just started sparring. Unlike Mike, Raph's technique had few unnecessary frills, and Don had to admit that it didn't need any. When Raph was fighting with a clear head, his skill with the sai was unmatched. He didn't like to waste movement, and that made his demonstrations easier to learn from. In addition, he took the lessons very seriously, neither holding back nor accepting less than everyone's best efforts. When practicing with other weapons, however, things were a bit tougher on him. He hated feeling clumsy, and he naturally became frustrated more easily if he didn't pick things up right away—something Mikey was quick to take advantage of.

For his part, Don didn't mind practicing with other weapons, but he didn't take naturally to any of them. He enjoyed teaching, however, and took a more instructional approach than any of his brothers. He would not only show them what to do, but explain to them  _why_  it should be done that way. This morning his brothers had all been teasing him, though. Mike had said, 'who fights with a lame stick of wood anyway? (oh, sorry Master Splinter…).' Don had replied that not everyone could appreciate the simple elegance of the bo staff, and he had casually swept Mikey's feet right out from under him.

Leo had commented somewhat teasingly that he found Don's choice of weapon just a bit ironic considering the complexity of all of his other prized possessions. Donatello had just smiled, saying that a weapon that merely sliced people open was a bit…  _coarse_  to those of higher intellect. But the truth was that the bo staff made perfect sense to Don—it was  _the_  simplest of simple machines. And he was good at seeing the potential in simple objects and making them part of something complex.

Suddenly Don was brought back to reality by the sound of someone clearing their throat behind him. He had been so immersed in his thoughts and work, he hadn't even heard anyone arrive. Peering back over his shoulder, he said, "Oh, hey Raph."

"Uh, sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

"It's all right. I was just planning some improvements for the sleds."

"Um, what're you doing with 'em?" Raph asked.

"Well," said Don, "when I first built them I had intended for there to be some defensive capabilities, but it was low priority so I never added anything. Then it occurred to me that while I'm at it, it might be nice to add some sort of navigation system as well, but I have to be careful with that cuz I wouldn't want anyone else to be able to find their way to the lair with it."

"Right…makes sense."

Don peered back at his brother—something in his tone sounded a little off. Sure enough, Raph did look a little tense… a lot tense, actually. And he was clenching his fists slightly, kneading his fingers as if his palms were sweaty.

"You okay, bro? You look a little hot and bothered."

"What? No… I uh, just finished my afternoon workout," he explained.

"Gotcha. Hey, wanna hand me that needle nose?"

Raph handed him the pliers, and then stood there uncomfortably. Then next time Don turned around he said, "Okay, Raph, what's up."

The turtle in red shifted his weight back and forth. "I just wanted to talk for a sec, but, um, if you're too busy or whatever, I can come back…"

Don stood up and turned around to face his brother, still holding the pliers. He couldn't resist. "Hey, no, it's no problem. You don't have to feel bad about asking—I'd be  _happy_  to give you some extra lessons with the bo staff," he smirked.

Normally a remark like that would earn Don a scowl and a sarcastic retort at the very least, but right now Raph just stared at him.

_What's up with him?_  Don thought in amazement. Then he rolled his eyes. "That was supposed to be joke, Raph—but I guess it wasn't all that funny." He cleared his throat just to break the ensuing awkward silence. "So…what is it you wanted to talk about?"

Raph swallowed, and rubbed a forearm nervously.

"Bro? Is everything all right?" His brother's unease was starting to rub off on Don.

Looking down at his feet, Raph still hesitated.

"Raph," commanded Donatello, and he waited until his brother looked up. "It's okay—you can tell me." Then he waited quietly as Raphael scanned his face. After several seconds the turtle in red seemed to reach a decision, for he dropped his eyes again and swallowed resolutely.

"Uh, I just needed to tell you something, and it… it ain't gonna be easy…"

"C'mon, enough with the buildup already. Just cough it up!"

"Okay, well… I've kinda been…um… seeing someone."

Don was startled for a moment, but then slowly a lopsided grin spread over his face. "Why Raphie, you sly dog! So that's what this is all about!" Don didn't quite understand why his brother had chosen to divulge this information, but he couldn't help but feel somewhat pleased that Raph had told him. Then he had a sudden insight. "Is that why you've been so vague about where you've been going in your free time lately?" he asked.

"Well uh, yeah, actually…"

Still smiling, Don just shook his head. "Man, Leo's gonna be relieved to hear that…I swear, even though it's been a couple of years since Nightwatcher was retired, he still has nightmares of a resurrection whenever he doesn't know exactly what you're up to." Then he laughed jovially. "So come on, spill—who's the lucky guy?" he asked eagerly.

And Raph's lack of response to that jab was Don's first clue that something about the scenario didn't quite add up. Studying his brother's body language a bit closer, he realized that Raph was still incredibly tense, and his facial expression didn't seem to fit. He wasn't looking self-conscious, or squirming in embarrassment, or even grinning at Don's good-natured questions. In fact, he looked a bit like he was about to be sick.

"Aw shit, Raph," Don said hurriedly, "God, I'm such a jerk… I mean, it's okay if it  _is_  a guy-"

"Don, it's April," Raph broke in quietly.

Don froze—his face a mask of his previous expression. "Wh-what?" he stuttered. He felt completely numb, and when he worked his mouth it was as if it was full of cotton wool. "What… what does that mean, you're 'seeing' her?" he asked woodenly.

Raph glanced up at him briefly without saying anything, but that was all that was necessary—Don saw the truth in his eyes, and it was as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to his stomach. He didn't even notice that he still held the pliers in a white-knuckled grip, and he tried to draw a breath as his world began to fall away from him. He reached out with his free hand and grasped the nearest object—another shell sled—for support.

"H-how… how long…" Don managed, and the words came out sounding like he had just learned he had a terminal illness.

"About a month."

Don thought furiously, doing the math in his head, and his voice took on a slightly higher pitch as he said, "So, what—you two just, just hooked up the second Casey left the picture?"

Raphael did not respond, but shifted nervously. Don finally forced himself to look at his brother, and his eyes widened in sudden and nauseating understanding. "Since BEFORE?!"

"Listen, Don, I… we… didn't mean for things to happen like this…"

Raph's voice trailed on, but Donatello ceased to understand the meaning of any of the words. The shock was wearing off and the facts were beginning to sink in—along with terrifying mental images that he wished to  _god_  he could banish. At first he had felt nothing, just numbness. But now, something dark and terrifying was rising up in him, and the sound of his brother's voice was replaced by a roaring in his ears, like he was holding seashells up to them. His breath quickened and he looked up at Raphael with narrowed, glinting eyes. Suddenly he dropped the pliers, and the last sound he heard before the rushing in his head drowned everything out was himself—a noise between a roar and growl as he launched himself at his brother.

The next few minutes were a blur to Don—flashes of color and streaked movement like watching landscape rush by through a car window. He realized later that there must have been a terrible racket, but in the moment there was no sound except for the clamor of the ocean raging past his ears. He had no real sense of time, but when he became aware of something hauling him backward he nevertheless felt it was too soon because his insides were still searing like white hot metal out of a forge. He fought the restraint and broke free momentarily, but immediately he was pulled back again, and this time a twisting pain in his shoulder caused the rushing in his head to recede slightly so that he could hear outside sounds once again.

"DONATELLO! Cool it!"

Panting heavily, chest heaving, Don ceased trying to break away and began to regain some sensory perception as he shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He looked around, and saw a dazed-looking Raphael still lying on the floor in front of him, a curtain of blood streaming down the left side of his face and soaking through his mask. More blood was spattered and smeared elsewhere on his body, and some could be seen on the floor as well. Michelangelo was crouched next to him, apparently asking him if he was okay. The box of tools had been knocked over, its contents strewn about on the floor around them, and for some reason Don's eyes caught and held on a few screws on the floor nearby that were flecked with livid ruby droplets.

At that point he realized he was still being physically restrained by Leonardo, and he forced himself to relax still more so his brother would let up somewhat on the hammerlock. Leo felt Don's response immediately and loosened his hold, but he did not let go altogether.

" _What the shell happened here?!_ " Leo demanded in a voice as cutting as the blade of a katana.

Although Donatello found he had regained some control of himself, his anger had not subsided completely but smoldered inside of him still, ready to flare up again if given proper fuel.

"Donatello! Talk to me, what's going on!" Leo insisted angrily, giving him a little shake when no answer was forthcoming. "DON-,"

"It was my fault," broke in Raphael as Mikey helped him to his feet.

Don could feel Leo's muscles twitch a little in surprise at that statement, and he could only imagine the look being given to Raph—maybe Leo thought he was more seriously injured than he looked.

Blinking blood out of one eye and fending off Mike's attempts to untie his red mask, Raph growled, " _I said it was my fault!_  Let 'im go."

Leo held him for another second, but then he obeyed and released his hold. Don was free...but he still felt trapped.

He had never done anything like this before, had never so completely lost control, and he knew Leonardo would demand an explanation. Donatello stared at the ground in front of him, still breathing faster than normal, and he could feel Leo's eyes upon him. How could he tell his brother what had transpired when all he wanted in the world was to block it out of his mind?

"Mikey," said Leo, "why don't you go help Raph get cleaned up." Don didn't look up, but he heard departing footsteps, and Mikey's voice saying, "C'mon, bro—good thing your mask is already red…"

When they were gone, Leo stepped forward and adjusted his position slightly—a small move, quite subtle really, but it was purposefully done. Leo always moved with purpose. Even though Don was still looking down, studying the tools littering the floor, he could tell that his brother's new position happened to be blocking the most direct escape route, and that his body was now angled slightly towards Don. It was a dominant posture, assertive without being aggressive. Blocking him in. Without saying a single word, Leonardo had effectively told him, "You're not moving until I get some answers."

He knew Leo was trying to be diplomatic, giving him a chance to explain even though the evidence was pretty incriminating. The older turtle waited a moment, and Don could feel his eyes boring into him—but when no information was forthcoming, Leo spoke.

"Don, tell me what happened." It was a soft spoken command, but a command nonetheless—and although that was usually all it took to get him to comply, Don found that this time he felt no compulsion to do so. The frothing boil of his anger had been reduced to a slow, bubbling simmer, but it was enough to make him feel rebellious.

"C'mon Donny," Leo said coaxingly. "I know better than anyone how infuriating Raph can be—but you know how Master Splinter feels about fighting. And out of all of us, you're the least likely to lose your cool _—something_  must have happened to set you off like that. Tell me, and we can work this out."

And for a moment, something in him wanted to collapse against Leo and just break down, let go, tell him everything. But then Raph's words came back to him, scrolling across his mind as if on a teleprompter.  _I've kinda been seeing someone_ … _Don, it's April_ …  _About a month_ …  _it's April_ …and Don clenched his fists, as if by doing so he could fight off the memory. He noticed blood smeared across the knuckles of both of his hands, red and glistening much like the ensanguined screws on the floor.  _Simple machines_.

And as he stared down at his own bespattered fists, he realized that he was not truly trapped unless he was powerless to change the situation. "I'm not doing this," he muttered to himself.

"What?" asked Leo, who hadn't been able to hear the words.

Then Don looked up at him, defiance in his usually apperceptive gaze and stubbornness etched on every feature. "I'm not doing this," he repeated, annunciating every word.

Leonardo looked back at him with a shocked expression, and for some reason this made Don's bubbling anger surge higher, overriding his customary logic. "I'm not going to stand here like a naughty child while you box me in and force me to  _explain_  things to you!" he said through clenched teeth. "Have  _him_  explain it—or not, I don't give a shit. But I'm done here." And he bumped past Leo and strode swiftly to the lair exit, grabbing his staff along the way.

As Donatello was about to exit, burning with the need to escape, he became aware of someone approaching behind him and spun around. It was Leo.  _Here we go,_ thought Don.

"Don, wait," Leonardo said as he approached, and then halted in front of him.

Bristling slightly and clutching his staff, Don prepared himself for a lecture and a battle, but his brother surprised him by simply holding out Don's shell cell to him. Don stared at the phone, and then met Leo's eyes—they didn't look angry, as he would have expected. Just pained. Don's eyes burned and a lump rose in his throat. He dropped his gaze before accepting the shell cell. Just when he thought he could predict Leonardo's every move, Leo would go and do something like this and force him to re-evaluate everything. It was part of what made his older brother an exceptional leader—he allowed his instincts to guide him when he lacked the information necessary for an analytical response

"Just…call or something, so we know you're okay," was all Leo said. Don nodded mutely, and turned to the now open door. He stepped out, but then paused when Leo spoke again.

"And Donny?" There was hesitation in his voice, but he couldn't stop himself from adding, "Be careful."

Don squeezed his eyes shut, feeling glad that Leo couldn't see his face. "Sure Leo," he said flatly. "I'll be careful. That's what's expected of me, isn't it? To be careful, and reasonable, and logical all the time? And Raph's the impulsive, hot-tempered one," he continued, his voice hardening, "which means he gets to do whatever the hell he wants and damn the consequences." Don was surprised the acidity in his voice wasn't eating away at the very air around him. He exhaled slowly. "I'm going to Leatherhead's."

He stepped the rest of the way out, and he could feel Leo's eyes upon him once more as the door was closing. Once it had, he broke into a run despite the quivering of his muscles and the wetness streaking across his vision. It was a long way to Leatherhead's from their current residence, but Don was glad of it—maybe, by the time he got there, he'd be so exhausted he wouldn't be able to feel.

Maybe, by the time he got there, he would find he'd been able to stop crying.

-=-=-=-=-=-


	3. Glimpses of a Soul

April was watching TV that evening in her apartment when Raphael arrived. Actually, she hadn't been so much watching as just keeping it on as background noise to her thoughts—she was too preoccupied to pay much attention, and the endless stream of "reality" shows and crime scene dramas never did much for her anyway. She heard the fire escape window slide up, and immediately she turned off the TV and headed toward the source of the sound. Raphael was already inside when she reached him, facing away from her and closing the window behind him.

"Raph, how'd it—," she started, but the words broke off abruptly as he turned around and she caught sight of his face, the damage evident even with his mask on. She sucked in her breath involuntarily. "God, are you okay?"

"Peachy," he grumbled.

"What… what happened to you?"

"Uh, wish I could say I mixed it up with a dozen thugs wielding crowbars, but I guess it was Don's idea of a brotherly chat." His words came out a bit thickly, presumably because he was trying to avoid moving his jaw too much.

April was speechless for a moment, her eyes wide and her mouth opening and closing like a broken garage door. "Don…  _Don_  did that to you? I… he … he must have been pretty mad…" she finished lamely.

Raph looked at her incredulously with his right eye—the left was already considerably swollen. " _Mad?!_  No, April, he wasn't mad. No, he just wanted to, you know, congratulate me. Yeah, he was just trying to shake my hand, only his aim was bad and his fist hit my FACE instead. What the hell do you think! For Christ's sake I'm  _still_  spittin' blood! Mad doesn't even BEGIN to describe his reaction!" Raph yelled, throwing up his hands.

"Well," she said hotly, bristling slightly at his caustic tone, "did you try  _explaining_  things instead of relying solely on your charming personality?!"

"Sure, as a matter of fact after he threw me head first into some blunt objects, we sat down for a nice cozy chat, and he offered me some tea and listened politely while I explained everything!" He glared at her.

"Okay, okay, I get it! So what are you going to do now?" April demanded, her temper rising in response to his cutting sarcasm, and she realized immediately that she had used the wrong tone.

"What am I gonna do  _now_? Well, let's see—I'm gonna put some fucking ice on my face, take some aspirin, and call it a night. Thanks for your  _concern_ ," he said angrily, and he pushed past her and stalked into the kitchen muttering and cursing.

April sighed and then followed him, pausing in the entranceway to watch. He had already pulled some ice out of the freezer and was currently looking for a towel to put it in, haphazardly rummaging through drawers and banging cabinets angrily. Finally he found what he was looking for, and with much clattering of spilled ice he dumped some cubes into a dish towel.

She turned and walked to the bathroom, thinking and using the time to try and calm herself. By now, she knew that trying to deal with Raphael when he was this worked up was a lost cause. And it certainly didn't help that she herself was worked up, redhead that she was. She hadn't wanted things to be this way at all—but it couldn't be helped now. She sighed as she plucked a bottle of ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet, and then headed back to the living area.

Raph was sitting on the couch, his head tilted completely back with one hand on the ice pack resting over his eye and forehead. His good eye was closed. April sat down next to him, noting the hard knots of his shoulders and the tension visible despite his reclined position. He looked like an action figure that could only bend at certain joints, leaving the rest of the body stiff and angular. She knew he would wait for her to make the first move and then use it as an excuse to blow up at her, but she refused to fall into that trap and instead waited silently for some of the anger to drain away. Of course, she had other ways of calming him—injury or no injury—but employing such methods wouldn't resolve anything, so she simply sat. It was essential that he initiate the conversation if they were going to get anywhere.

As she waited, she let her thoughts wander. It was no secret that Raphael, alone out of his brothers, seemed always to be haunted by the dark phantom of anger. Sometimes, like when he had first entered the apartment, she could almost  _see_  it emanating from him. But even when it wasn't actually engulfing him, its swarthy mists were always swirling close by, ready to surround him, protect him. If Raph was a warrior, then anger was his armor.

But why Raphael relied on this armor to such an extent was up for debate. Doubtless some people would say he was just born that way—that it was a trait rooted in the very coils of his DNA, like eye or skin color. Others would likely argue that personalities were formed not through genetics but by experiences in life. Maybe they would claim that because Raph had grown up in the shadow of Leonardo's perfectionism, and Michelangelo's charisma, and Donatello's intelligence, he'd developed anger as a tool to compete with or set himself apart from his siblings. It was the age-old debate of Nature vs. Nurture.

Yet the majority of people these days, including April, didn't buy either hypothesis alone but rather a blending of the two. Most likely Raph's propensity for anger was not only part of his intrinsic character, but had been reinforced by his experiences in life. And April had begun to develop a hypothesis of sorts on this, because at times Raphael seemed to not just live with the anger, to try and master it, but to embrace it—pulling it closer about him as if it were a blanket he could hide under. And in a sense, that was what he was doing—hiding. From pain, from feelings, from his family, and even from himself at times.

It meant that he often came across as callous or insensitive—a reputation he seemed comfortable perpetuating. But April suspected that, far from being the least emotional of the four turtles, the opposite was closer to the truth. Raphael was so emotional, in fact, that if he didn't do something to buffer his feelings, he would shatter with the intensity of them—and anger was the only thing powerful enough, blinding enough, to deflect them.

Certainly she couldn't be sure of her assessment—it was more of a feeling than anything else, really. But on rare occasions she caught a glimpse of something so achingly vulnerable in his eyes, it made her want to cry.

Minutes ticked by—ten, then fifteen…eighteen, and the only movement was Raph occasionally shifting the ice pack around on his face and jaw. Finally he opened the one eye, looking at her coolly.

" _Well?!_ " he said finally, breaking into her thoughts with an exasperated tone.

"Well what?" she returned innocently, calmly.

"Well, aren't you gonna ask what happened?"

She shrugged, and offered him the bottle of pills. He grunted, and accepted the bottle. As he fumbled to open it, she asked, "How's your eye?" Silently he removed the ice pack and handed it to her so he could swallow the pills he had finally managed to extricate.

"I'll live," he said dryly.

She knew the truth in that. His scars attested to the many and varied injuries he'd sustained over his short but tumultuous life—most of them more serious than a black eye and a gashed brow. She leaned over to get a better look, and noticed the tape holding the cut together.

"Mike patched me up," he said in response to her unspoken question.

She nodded to herself, but still held her tongue.

Finally he sighed, expelling the bile-black vapors that festered inside of him, and the release of tension was manifest in the loosening of his muscles. "I've never seen Don lose it like that, April. It was like he was someone else…" He paused a moment, and then laughed.

Somewhat alarmed, April said, "What?"

"Nothing. I was just thinking… it was like he was  _me_ ," Raph answered, and this time there was no laughter in his voice. "I'm serious, he fucking flipped out—Leo had to haul him off, and even then Donny fought to get at me."

He glanced at April, whose eyes were wide. "Did you…"

"No," he said grumpily. "To be completely honest, I never even had a chance to fight back. He didn't get so much as a scratch, though I had half a mind to chase him down and beat his scrawny ass." He cast a look at her, noting the obvious relief on her face. Scowling, he said, "Well you don't hafta look so damn pleased about it! Fuck, why don't you just chuck me if you like him so much."

"Not a chance," she responded earnestly.

She knew this was Raphael's way of seeking reassurance, and that he still felt terribly guilty about the way things had happened between them. She did, too—things would have been so much simpler if she had fallen for Don instead of Raph—or at least if Raph and Casey hadn't been best friends. But that was life, just as unfair and messy as it could get. She had given up trying to understand why things had happened this way, but she felt that both of them had been powerless to prevent it.

Unsurprisingly, Raph was having a tougher time accepting that. After she'd told Casey that things had developed between them, Casey had been furious and had subsequently refused to talk to Raph—rejecting all phone calls from either one of them. It didn't matter that April and Casey's relationship had been steadily declining for some time; it was never easy to hear that your girlfriend had fallen for your best buddy—especially when he just happened to be a mutant turtle.

Raph, who wasn't good at reaching out, had nevertheless confronted Casey in person with the intention of forcing him to talk, but to say things hadn't gone very well would be putting it lightly. Their "talk" hadn't quite come to blows, but Casey had made it clear that that next time he saw Raphael, he would be lucky if it  _only_  came to that. Raph hadn't tried again, and although he didn't speak of it, she could tell by his battered, raw knuckles and bloodshot eyes whenever he came over that it bothered him a great deal.

April still harbored hopes of the three of them being able to reconcile in time, but she acknowledged that if such a thing was possible, it would not be anytime soon. The apparent loss of Casey's friendship had hurt Raph (and her, too) so much that, even though she'd been uncomfortable with hiding their relationship, she had gone along with it when Raph had suggested putting off telling Donatello and the rest of his family. They had justified it by saying things might not even work out between them long term—why rock the boat if this turned out to be just a fling?

But April, for herself anyway, had been fairly certain even then that it wasn't a mere fling. As she studied Raph, April reached a decision. "I'll go and talk to him," she said quietly.

Raphael didn't look at her, but snorted through his nose. "No you won't," he said, as if that decided the matter.

She didn't bother to respond. Standing up, April went to the closet and fished her shoes out.

"What are you doing," Raph said suspiciously.

She stooped over and began putting the shoes on. She knew he hated to be ignored, but she was not going to bend to his will on this one.

"April…" he said warningly. "Don't even think about it."

She began tying the laces of the sneakers, double knotting them so they wouldn't come loose.

Raphael stood up and crossed his arms over his chest. "April," he repeated more sharply.

"Hmmm?"

"You heard me," he said.

"Heard you what?"

His good eye narrowed behind the red mask. "I said 'no'".

Straightening up, she faced him and arched an eyebrow dangerously. "No?"

"Absolutely not," he repeated. "What, you like the look of my makeover so much you want one of your own?! You even know how much blood I left behind at the lair? The mood he's in right now, no tellin' what he might do!"

"Raph, it's Donny—he's not going to hurt me."

He strode up to her like a bull about to charge, hunching his shoulders and getting in her face, trying to stare her down—using every tactic he knew to try and intimidate her into backing down. She felt the stirrings of indignant anger at the treatment, that he thought he could push her around like that, dominate her like a bully trying to steal her lunch money…

Eyes narrowed, she didn't back away but stood up even straighter—emphasizing her height advantage. "I'm not afraid of you, Raphael—and I'm certainly not afraid of Don. I'm going."

But at her defiant words, the turtle's expression darkened still more. Every nuance of his posture, every huffed breath, every pulsing vein heralded his impending outburst. Her thoughts raced as she returned his stare, and she knew that confronting his rage with anger of her own was a very poor strategy. If there was a freight train roaring straight at you, the worst thing to do was to try and hit it head on—the easiest way to stop it was to simply derail it.

And she reminded herself that right now, in addition to wanting to keep her safe, Raph had to be hurting something fierce after Donatello's reaction—nothing meant more to him than his family, whether he admitted it or not. April's anger subsided at the thought, and she smoothly switched tactics.

Leaning back slightly, she swiveled her head and looked behind herself, patting her rear end like she was trying to find something. Ignoring Raph, she began turning slowly in a circle, craning her neck to better see her own butt. When she was satisfied, she stopped, vaguely facing him from several feet away, and put both hands up to her neck, patting all around it. Then finally, she reached up to touch both of her ears.

As she had hoped, when she looked back at Raph his angry expression had been replaced by a look of complete astonishment. Brow ridges furrowed and mouth agape, all he could do was stand and stare. " _What the hell are you doing?_ " he asked finally.

She looked back at him, mirroring his confusion, and replied, "I was just double checking."

" _Huh?!"_

She crinkled her brow. "Well, last time I checked I didn't have a tail, or a collar, or long floppy ears, but since you were shouting out commands I just thought I'd check to make sure."

He was getting really exasperated now. "Dammit, April, make sure  _what_?!"

She looked at him like he was being a bit slow. "That I hadn't morphed unexpectedly in to a dog." She had a hard time keeping a straight face, but the effort paid off when she saw the barest twitch around his mouth, like he was repressing the sudden urge to smile.

"Everything seems okay, but just to be sure, maybe you should try some other commands, see if I'm compelled to obey them." She waited expectantly.

Raph's muscles had uncoiled slightly, but he wasn't quite ready to play along.

"Nothing? No ideas? How about 'sit'? Or 'heel?" When he still didn't respond, she said, "Come  _on_  Raph, this is serious—I could have a real problem here! I might, you know, suddenly start chasing after mailmen, or peeing on trees, and how embarrassing would  _that_ be?"

Now his shoulders were quivering slightly, and his face contorted a little with the effort of holding back his mirth.

"Uh oh…" she said, her eyes widening in feigned fright. "I think… oh, this is bad…I'm definitely getting the urge to go drink out of the toilet…"

At that, Raphael finally lost it, and he burst out laughing, even though she was sure it must have hurt his face to do so. "You are such a  _goof_ ," he said to her, and she finally melted into a smile. She loved to hear him laugh.

"All right," he said, still laughing. "But before you go quenching your thirst, lemme just test this out." He took a breath, pointed at the floor in front of him and said, "Come."

Obediently, she stepped forward to the place he indicated.

"Shake," he told her, and held out his hand. She grasped it and shook it firmly, smiling to herself.

He exhaled dramatically and shook his head. "Well, it ain't looking good so far, I might hafta take you to the pound… but just one more test." He cleared his throat. "Lie down."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Rollover?" he said hopefully.

"Nice try."

Then he gave a sly grin and laughed, linking an arm around her waist and drawing her closer. She smiled back and warmed significantly as she came into his embrace, marveling that even though she was slightly taller, he somehow managed to make her feel tiny. He lifted one calloused hand and gently pushed some strands hair out of her face before reaching behind her head, twining his fingers through her hair and combing them slowly through it as he often did. April relaxed and sighed, enjoying the sensation.

At first, she had been surprised by his preoccupation with her hair, but when she'd thought about it more it had made perfect sense. Hair, other than Master Splinter's furry pelt, was a completely foreign thing—and being able to touch human hair with such familiarity wasn't generally acceptable even with the few people they did know. This caress had become such a habit with Raph that she had begun leaving her hair loose more often, rather than pulling it back in the usual way.

Then he stopped playing with her hair and just looked at her, studying her face. She expected him to kiss her then, but instead he cupped the side of her jaw in his hand, gently stroking her cheek with his thumb.

"God, you're beautiful," he whispered.

Her breath caught and her knees grew weak when he spoke those words, her heart fluttering with the jeweled wings of a hummingbird. But it wasn't just the words themselves—it was as if a veil had lifted from his eyes, allowing the light to shine in however briefly to illuminate his soul. This was the look that had started everything; it was so unexpectedly fragile, so startlingly beautiful that when it vanished a moment later her spirit temporarily wilted like a flower deprived of rain. From the first glimpse on she had desired nothing so much as to see it again, to drown in it if possible—lured by its promise like a sapling to the sun. And with each consecutive disclosure, she found it a little harder to imagine her life without him.

She wanted to tell him then that she was sorry about how Donatello had reacted, that it wouldn't always be this hard, that they would get through it—but she couldn't. Not in words, anyway…he would only brush them away. So instead she kissed him—not passionately, but lovingly—and she could tell by the way he returned it that he understood.

That was Raphael's way—communication by actions and looks more than words, and she had been surprised to find how easy it was to do. It was as if deemphasizing words, which were finicky things in the first place, made nonverbal cues seem clearer. Oh, it wasn't like they didn't talk at all. They did—but at this point most of it still fell in to the category of every day events, or joking, or movies they had seen. Slowly, though, ever so slowly, he was starting to open up and  _really_  talk to her, relaxing as he learned that she didn't expect him to conform to any preconceived notions about how one was "supposed" to act or feel. Learning that she accepted him.

And she wondered why, as hard as she had tried, she had never been completely able to do that with Casey.

He broke the kiss first and pulled back a little. That was another one of his unspoken rules—to always be the first to break away in order to avoid seeming needy or vulnerable. Funny how, to her, it seemed to convey the opposite.

Then he said, "Sure you don't wanna give 'im some more time to cool off?"

She thought about that. Sometimes it was a good strategy, like with Raph. But Donny was different from Raph.  _Very_  different. Don might be mad when she showed up—might even refuse to talk to her. But he would know that it meant she cared, that he was important to her, and she didn't want him to go a moment longer than necessary doubting those things.

"No—I'll go now."

He sighed resignedly. "Okay. I'll go with you to the lair, but I ain't goin' in there. You can call me when you're ready to come back and I'll meet you."

"Okay."

"An' don't expect sympathy from me if you end up with a black eye—ain't happenin'. Might just give ya one to match it for being so damn stubborn."

April laughed. "Like I said before—you don't scare me," she said.

And he didn't. No…what scared her was how much she already felt for him—and it had only been a month.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-


	4. Moths to the Light

Don was just gathering the materials to make agarose gel for Leatherhead when his shell cell began ringing. He was tempted to ignore it, but thought better of it when he remembered Leo's words to him as he departed the lair. The last thing he needed right now was another reason to be reprimanded. He walked across the room to where the phone was, and relaxed when he saw the name on the display.

"Hey Mikey," he said by way of greeting.

" _Well if it isn't Donatello, my new personal hero!"_  came Michelangelo's enthusiastic voice.  _"Just had to call and say 'thank you' from the bottom of my heart, dude! Been meaning to give Raph a good licking myself, but you managed it way better than I could have—he never even saw it coming! You gotta teach me some of those moves,"_  Mikey laughed.  _"I was_ _ **almost**_ _tempted to relinquish my Battle Nexus title to you…"_

Don shook his head silently. Anyone else would have tried to tiptoe around such a potentially sensitive topic, but leave it to Mikey to dig right in.

"Yeah, well I think you were the only one who was impressed." Don said soberly. They both fell silent then, and in his mind Don pictured Raphael's face as he had last seen it—blood streaming down, not a trace of his usual cockiness in evidence. And even angry as he still was at his brother, his heart sank a little.

Mike continued on again in his usual, easy tone.  _"Raph's fine, you know—luckily he has an especially hard head. You did a number on his face, for sure, but all that blood was just from a small cut on his forehead—you know how head wounds are. Looked like it just split from the impact. He didn't even need stitches, which was fortunate for him cuz none of us have your talent for doin' 'em anyway."_

Don exhaled slowly, more relieved than he wanted to admit. He hadn't been able to bring himself to ask about Raph, but it was just like his younger brother to know exactly what Don wanted to hear without even being told—Mikey could be extraordinarily sensing at times.

" _Anyway, Leo wanted me to ask if you're gonna to be home for training in the morning."_

Translation: Leo was worried and had asked Mikey to check up on him. Ever since returning from Central America, Don knew their older brother had been trying very hard not to be so overprotective of them—but he couldn't stop himself from worrying. Besides, Leo knew perfectly well that Splinter would not look kindly upon Don skipping practice for something like this, so phrasing it as a question was just a sham. He scowled a little, though Mikey couldn't see it. If this had happened tomorrow night, he would be off the hook since the day after tomorrow was their one morning off from group training this week. But as it was, he would be expected to attend.

"Raph gonna be there?" he asked, hoping against hope that Raph would be given the day off because of his injuries.

" _Uh, dunno bro. He kinda… skipped off soon as I doctored him up a bit."_

Don winced and closed his eyes. It wasn't hard to guess where he'd gone.

" _Donny,"_  Mike began, hesitation in his voice for the first time.  _"Raph told us what he told you…guess he figured he might as well get it over with since he was already bloodied up, in case we decided to kick his ass, too,"_  he said, obviously trying to keep it light.  _"Anyway…"_

_Don't say it, Mikey_ …  _please,_   _just don't say it,_ Don pleaded silently. He had only recently regained some semblance of control over his emotions, and it was still a fragile balance.

"… _I'm real sorry buddy,"_  Mikey said with genuine sympathy.  _"I know you and April-,"_

"I don't want to talk about it," Donatello cut across quickly, angry that he couldn't seem to keep tears from springing to his eyes. Then he realized how harsh his voice had sounded, and reminded himself that his brother was just trying to be nice. "But thanks," he said quietly.

" _Sure…"_  Mike said gently. Then he cleared his throat and changed the subject.  _"Also, just thought I'd give you a heads up—Leo had to tell Splinter what happened. I told him Sensei might not notice Raph's new look since he's so ugly in the first place, but Leo seemed to feel otherwise so… he filled Master Splinter in on everything, including the, uh, circumstances behind it."_

There was a moment of silence, then Don responded, "It's okay, I figured as much."

It was no great revelation to him. He had assumed Master Splinter would be told, one way or another, and he knew he would have to face the music when he returned. It was ironic that they spent countless hours every week learning how to fight, and yet breaking the 'no fighting' rule was one of the most heavily penalized transgressions of the household. Of course, fighting in that sense was referring to violence directed at a family member with actual malignant intent, so getting carried away during practice and accidentally using too much force didn't count. Minor scuffles resulting from arguments occurred frequently as well, and in an environment so saturated with testosterone, it was no small wonder… but these incidents were often overlooked as long as nothing got out of hand and no real harm was intended. And of course, there were the inevitable fights that slipped under Master Splinter's radar, though granted that was only possible if there were no physical signs of it.

Donatello had no illusions about what he had done, however. He'd had malignant intent, all right; he'd flat out attacked his brother—something he'd never thought himself capable of doing. The fact that he'd done it in a blind rage only made it worse as far as he was concerned, and he dreaded confessing to Splinter that he'd so completely lost control. He felt a flutter of panic at the thought of seeing Raphael the next day, because not only would his brother's mere physical presence force Don to recall the recent and repulsive twist to his personal world, but his injuries would provide incontrovertible evidence of his own appalling reaction.

As he thought about what the next morning would bring, he started to get that feeling again—the sensation of being trapped, forced in to a corner by the inevitability of an undesired confrontation. He just needed some more time, that was all—then he'd be able to face things a bit easier… he wasn't ready… But he knew Master Splinter didn't believe in putting off such things.

Then a thought came to him, spoken in his mind as if by someone else:  _Why should you go to training, then? Aren't you an adult? Can't you decide on your own what's best for you?_  And Donatello realized that should he decide not to go, any number of arguments or punishments may result, but no one would physically force him to attend. The decision was his—and he felt the same surging sense of power he'd had when he had refused to answer Leo's questions. At once, instead of just a dead end, he saw two different pathways… and the choice was his alone.

Suddenly, it didn't seem so scary anymore.

" _Donny?"_  said Michelangelo tentatively.

"Uh, sorry, I was thinking. Just… tell Master Splinter and Leo I'll be there tomorrow for group, but I'll just jog over from LH's instead of warming up with you guys."

" _No prob, bro. See you tomorrow then, and have fun… uh, what did you say you were doing?"_

"I didn't."

" _Anything I'd care about?"_

"Fraid not, Mikey—I'm just making some fresh gel treys for electrophoresis."

Don heard a sigh on the other end.  _"Just once, couldn't the answer be, 'yeah, I'm making a freakin' awesome present for my dashing, charming, favorite brother Michelangelo'?"_

"Sorry, I don't know a Michelangelo meeting that description…"

" _Hey!"_  exclaimed the younger turtle in indignation. Then he snickered and said,  _"Well, at least I know I'll get a present before Raph does."_

Don smiled in spite of himself. At least he could always count on Mikey for that.

"See you tomorrow, little brother," he said, and ended the call. Setting his phone back down on the only chair in the lab, he returned to the workstation and looked back at the "recipe" to refocus his mind on what he had to do.

When he had arrived here, out of breath and still daubed with his brother's blood, Leatherhead had looked puzzled and slightly alarmed, but he had put off any questions and unhesitatingly invited Don in, offering to prepare food and tea. Although he hadn't yet eaten dinner, Don had declined the offer of food but had taken him up on the tea. Washing up before joining the giant crocodilian at the table, he had simply sipped the hot beverage, feeling the soothing blend take effect as they talked about inconsequential things. At first, he hadn't been sure he was even going to say anything to his friend about what had happened, but then he'd reasoned that if anyone would understand it would be Leatherhead. LH knew what it felt like to lose control, having once attacked Michelangelo while staying with them at their old lair. So after a time, Donatello had relayed the events that had brought him here.

The kind reptile had merely sighed sympathetically, and asked Don if there was anything he could do. Don had asked if he could stay over, and had also requested something to do—anything at all, as long is it didn't require too much thought and would keep him busy for a time. LH had complied, saying he could always use fresh gels for his current genetic research, and Don had gratefully gone to work.

As he finished gathering the necessary glassware and utensils, Donatello tried to put everything else from his mind but the task at hand. He felt unusually exhausted considering it wasn't even very late, but he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep for a good long while. Some time later, just as he was preparing to put the finished solution in the lab microwave, his cell started ringing again. Don made a noise of frustration at the interruption, but he walked over and answered the phone—Mikey again.

"Hey," he answered.

" _Hey Don, sorry to bug you again, but uh…April came to the lair looking for you…"_  Mike's voice sounded a bit distant and seemed to echo somewhat.

"Oh yeah?" said Don, and before he could stop himself, "Are  _you_  sleeping with her now, too?" Immediately upon saying it he regretted the words, and he was repulsed by the ugliness in his voice.

There was a sudden scrambling on Michelangelo's end, and when he next spoke his voice sounded closer, clearer.  _"Uh, guess I shoulda warned ya you were on speaker phone,"_  he said uncomfortably.

Don immediately sank down onto the chair, and rubbed his forehead with his free hand. "April's there with you."  _I am_ _ **such**_ _an asshole._

" _Yeah, well, she was afraid you wouldn't answer if she called, so um, yeah,"_  Mike said, trying to recover.

"Very astute," was all Don said.

Mike paused.  _"So, like, are you gonna talk to her now?"_

"Can't. I'm pretty busy, and I need two hands to do this."

" _Oh. Welll then, it's a good thing you won't need your phone…we're right outside."_

Don's heart immediately accelerated, thumping painfully in his chest. "You're here? Right NOW? How'd you get here without Leatherhead picking you up on security?"

" _Yeah, thing is, we kinda called ahead..."_

Donatello swore under his breath. "Well, you wasted a trip. I don't have anything to say."

" _Whaddya mean? LH already invited us in, and he said he'd watch a movie with me if I share some of the snacks I brought…"_

Donatello's palms began to sweat.  _Trapped, I'm trapped..._ Then he heard a faint voice in the background followed by some fumbling noises, and April's voice came to him over the line.

" _Don, it's me,"_ she said.

Trying to ignore the way his insides were twisting, Don remained silent.

" _Listen, since we're here anyway, can't we just talk?"_

"I don't have anything to say," he said in a monotone that belied the astounding contortions his emotions were currently undergoing.

There was a pause, then,  _"That's fine, you don't have to say anything. But can I come in anyway?"_

He began to panic—she really was determined to come in, and he didn't have any idea how he would react. None of the realistic possibilities were at all appealing… like vomiting (which seemed the most likely at this point), or bursting in to hysterical tears, or attacking her as he had his brother… But then he calmed himself by saying,  _I don't have to stay. If she comes in, and I want to leave, I can just go._

Finally he said, "It's not my place, I can't stop you."

" _Okay,"_ she said faintly, and a moment later Mike's voice came back on.

" _K, bro, we'll see you in a min-,"_

"Hold on, Mikey, not so fast!" Don interjected. "What the hell possessed you to bring her here? You couldn't possibly have thought it was a good idea! And here I thought you had my shell…"

" _I do, dude! I mean, I usually mostly always do, but see, there were extenuating circumstances…"_

"Mikey!"

" _It wasn't my fault! She, she used her… uh, feminine wiles on me, man, real tricksy, Jedi-worthy mind tricks, I think she must've jinxed me or something, probably has a Ring of Power for all I know, or maybe kryptonite…"_

Don knew when his little brother started mixing so many movie references together like that, he was really flustered. "MIKEY!"

There was a sigh, and then Mike said sheepishly,  _"She gave me cookies."_

Don could only smack his head.

" _But they weren't just any cookies!"_  he added hurriedly.  _"I wouldn't have sold you out for anything but the best—homemade oatmeal butterscotch."_ That last was stated in a reverent tone reserved for only the most choice food items.

Don sighed.  _Guess the rate has gone down,_ he thought.  _Used to be thirty pieces of_ _ **silver.**_ "Well, I'm glad you have standards when it comes to matters of defection," he muttered, and he swore he could actually hear his brother's brain trying to work out what 'defection' was. "Oh, just come in before you hurt yourself," he said in surrender, and he tried to quell the whirlwind of butterflies that had taken flight in his abdomen.

" _All righty, Mikey out."_

Don ended the call and set the phone down again, taking a moment to prepare himself for the next episode of "Unbelievably Awkward Conversations with Family Members and Close Friends Who Now Happen to be Lovers." He had serious doubts as to his ability to endure the entire thing—he would just have to do his best to make sure it was over with quickly.  _Let her say whatever it is she feels she has to say, and then think up some excuse to get them to leave,_ he told himself.

He walked back over to the work station and read the instructions yet again. Then he put the solution to heat in the microwave. He tried to appear casual, but his ears were straining for the sound of footsteps. Finally he heard someone approaching, and he turned towards the counter so he wouldn't be facing her when she came in, his stomach now performing a series of back flips worthy of the Olympic Games. Footsteps, light and slow, sounded behind him and stopped roughly in the center of the lab area.

"Hey, Don…" came April's tentative voice.

"Hey," he mumbled without turning around as he scrutinized an empty graduated cylinder. She was quiet, and he wished he had something real to do instead of just waiting for the microwave to beep. It was strange—feeling so nervous about seeing someone he'd known for years. Then again, he reflected, so much had changed it may as well have been eons since he'd last seen her.

After a couple of minutes that felt like hours, she must have realized he wasn't going to turn around, and she finally spoke. "I hope you're not too mad at Mikey for bringing me here—I kind of bullied him into doing it. Told him I'd wander the sewers until I stumbled across this place if I had to, so he gave me a lift on one of the shell sleds."

He merely grunted in reply, tapping the counter impatiently.

After another few minutes of silence, he heard her give a barely audible sigh. "I understand if you don't want to talk to me right now—I don't blame you. Really. I just… wanted you to hear it from me in person that I'm sorry—I know we should have told you sooner…"

Under his breath he said, "You think?" But he didn't think she heard him.

"…especially since you're one of my best friends-,"

" _Friends?_ " he said, whipping around. "April, you've been essentially lying to me for over a MONTH!  _A MONTH!"_  he repeated, as if she had tried to contradict him. "Is that how you treat everyone you call your friend?!" He hadn't even meant to speak—the words had just burrowed free of his throat like cicadas emerging from the ground. But once he had started, he was unable to stop.

"I mean, all this time, I've been trying to be understanding, give you space, make myself available because I _thought_  you were going through a tough time because of your breakup with  _Casey_!" he raged, "and you, you just let me go on believing… for a month…  _god_ , I feel like such a  _fool_!"

He ran out of steam then, and stood facing her as he gulped air and tried to force himself to get a grip. He couldn't lose control, not again… what if he ended up attacking her like he had Raph? That thought caused him to look at her, really look at her for the first time since she had arrived, and he couldn't help but notice how drawn and pale she was. And how beautiful even so.

_Never. I could never hurt her._

Just then the microwave beeped and he jumped a little, hurriedly turning around and seizing a hot pad before removing the large beaker from the oven. At least now he had something to do—the solution had to be stirred constantly until it cooled to the right temperature. He could feel her eyes on him, but he didn't turn around.

"Tell me what you want me to do," she said pleadingly, her voice pained. "What can I do?"

"Well you can  _start_  by being  _honest_  with me!" he spat, looking back over his shoulder at her. Then he looked away again, savagely stirring the liquid, part of him hoping his outburst would make her leave—and yet praying she would stay. He was angry, sure. And hurt. But he couldn't quite silence the part of himself that always seemed to hunger for answers.

He heard her steps moving away, and for a moment he thought she really was leaving. But then she merely dragged the chair nearer to him, and sat down. Without preamble, she said slowly, "About two months ago, Casey and I came very close to breaking up."

The words were uttered so softly that Don could barely hear them over the glass stirring rod clinking against the sides of the beaker.  _On second thought, maybe I don't want to hear this after all_ , he thought. But then he figured the facts couldn't be worse than some of the possibilities that had been playing across his imagination all evening.

April took a breath, and went on calmly. "Things hadn't been going well between us for some time, and we both knew it—but it wasn't like there was any big fight, or some event that had occurred to set things off… it was just that things weren't… working right. We were both unhappy, and we didn't know why. So we kept pushing on, thinking maybe it was just a rut, just one of those things you have to work through—I mean, it happens sometimes. We talked about some stuff that was bothering us, and we both made some changes, but after a while it became clear that it wasn't helping. Even so, we decided to give it a little more time—but if things didn't improve between us soon, we agreed that, even though it would be really hard, the best thing to do would probably be to split up—or at least take a break." She took a deep breath before resuming.

"One night, a couple weeks later, Raphael stopped by our apartment looking for Casey. He knew Casey was usually home from work by then, but I told him he'd been trying to pick up extra shifts lately so he was working late. Since Raph had already made the trip, though, I invited him in to hang out, and he did. Raph and I, it's not like we ever really spent much time alone together… I mean, you know that," she stumbled, sounding slightly flustered. "Anyway, we didn't do much, just watched some TV, flipping channels and making fun of the idiotic shows that came on, and it actually turned out to be fun. I think maybe Raph could tell I was feeling… down, because even though he acted completely normal he seemed… gentler, somehow. And he made me laugh—something I realized I hadn't felt like doing for a while."

"As he was leaving, I suggested that maybe we could do it again sometime, and it became kind of a pattern—when Casey knew he was going to work late, Raph and I would watch TV or just hang out. It was completely innocent, Casey knew about it and everything—but after a while, I started to realize that I looked forward to the nights Casey was working late more than I looked forward to the nights when he would be home." Here she paused for a moment, as if considering what to say next. "Then one night when Raph was over, something … happened, and we kissed."

Don had a pretty good idea what the 'something' was—his brother's hormones. But he didn't interrupt. He could tell this was hard for April, and he had to grudgingly admit that she was doing better than he could have done under the circumstances. She wasn't getting emotional or trying to defend her actions; she was just giving the facts—and he appreciated that.

April drew another long breath. "That night when Casey came home, I told him what had happened and, to make a long story short, we broke up. That Raph and I had kissed was difficult enough for him to hear, but I also told him that I thought that maybe… I mean, I wasn't sure, but it was possible that there was something more between us."

In the silence following this statement, Don became aware that he was no longer stirring but hanging on her every word, and he immediately resumed his activity. He also realized that, as badly as  _he_  felt right now, it must have been absolute  _hell_  on Casey. In that moment, he felt more of a kinship with the man than he ever had before.

"So it was that easy, huh?" Don said harshly. "Just to forget about Casey and move on to his best friend?" It seemed like every word out of his mouth tonight was sour and biting—lemon on a paper cut.

"No," she said quietly, and for the first time he detected a hint of steel in her voice. "No, it wasn't 'that easy' for either of us—it still isn't. We both felt horribly guilty, and, and so confused… Raphael went around looking like a zombie, not getting any sleep and beating his knuckles raw because Casey refused to talk to him, and some days it seemed like all I could do was cry. Every little thing reminded me of Casey—even Raph.  _Especially_  Raph, which just confused me even more. But I just…" Her voice broke a little, and although Don didn't look back at her, he knew she was trying to keep from crying. "… I just couldn't help the way I felt. Sometimes I wish I could, but I, I can't."

Don closed his eyes and leaned his weight on the counter, clutching the edge of it with his free hand. He had understood what she told him, but he still didn't quite comprehend… why  _Raph_? He had trouble imagining anyone less suitable for April! Raph was just so… well, he was kind of an asshole, to put it bluntly. And Donatello couldn't help wondering… if  _he_  had been the one to stop by her apartment to hang out, if he had made her laugh when she was sad… could he have been the one instead of Raphael? Was it all just about being in the right place at the right time? He grew slightly light-headed at the thought, that his chance with her may have been cruelly thwarted by something as arbitrary as bad timing or a shortage of good jokes. He opened his eyes again when April resuming speaking, but he still felt somewhat dizzy.

"I know we should have told you, all of you, right away… I think we both knew that. And I'm not trying to make excuses here, really—but the truth is, we were afraid. I mean, you and I have always been really close… and after how Casey reacted—I mean, I don't blame him," she added hurriedly, "it's just, we knew it wouldn't be easy to tell you, either, so we decided we'd just… let things settle for a while. We really didn't mean for it to go that long but…" she groped for the words to explain, but evidently came up with nothing because she finally just said, "we screwed up. I felt awful the whole time, and I'm so, so sorry, Donny."

Don still didn't turn around, but he didn't need to—he could tell her words were genuine. He also knew that April wouldn't intentionally hurt him, and that it was a mark of her high regard for him that she was even here in the first place—he hadn't exactly made it easy for her, after all. But before he could even verbalize one of the many questions bombarding his brain, she went on.

"And… there's something else I have to explain… or at least I have to try," she said, taking a steadying breath before speaking again. "Even in the beginning of our relationship, Casey and I had our ups and downs—I mean, I guess everybody does sometimes… Only, with us it seemed like more than sometimes—but then tucked in between the tough stretches were these little patches of such happiness that they kept us going forward long after we would otherwise have given up. We stayed together because we really loved each other, and even when everything seemed like a struggle we kept plowing ahead because we saw how much potential there was in our relationship. In the end, though, it just… it just seemed like everything was so  _hard_ , you know? Like all the potential happiness in the world isn't enough if you don't have it in the here and now, in just being together."

Then her voice grew even softer when she said, "From the first with Raph, things just… felt different. Easier. I know it hasn't been that long, and I know it might not always be this way, but even though I never thought we had much in common, somehow we just… seem to make sense when we're together. And… the reason I'm telling you this is because I want you to know that I'd never risk jeopardizing our friendship over something I thought was… casual."

To that, Don didn't respond— _couldn't_  respond. Before, he had almost been feeling a little better. Definitely calmer at any rate, once he knew most of the facts. But now, suddenly, it was as if he had been thrust in one of those vacuum seal storage bags and someone was sucking all of the air out of it—the more he struggled to breathe, the tighter the suffocating prison clung.

He had long ago come to accept that in all likelihood he and April would never be anything more than friends—she loved Casey, plain and simple. And he respected that. Even so, he couldn't help but be drawn to her—she was just so… vibrant. Alive. A spangle of sunlight in the otherwise murky darkness of the sewers they called home. He spent time with her, tried to please her because he simply couldn't help himself, couldn't stop any more than a moth could stop throwing itself against a light bulb. But he should have known… the moth rarely came to a good end.

Don's mind flew back over all the years he and April had known each other, remembering the countless hours they had spent together, just the two of them—collaborating on projects, playing board games, staying up late watching documentaries long after everyone else had lost interest and gone to bed… One such night, April had actually fallen asleep nestled up next to him on the couch as they watched, her soft breath caressing his shoulder and leaving a warmth that lingered for days afterward. Don had been afraid to move for fear that she would wake up, and even after the documentary was over and the credits were through he hadn't so much as lifted a finger—just watched her sleep.

He thought, too, of all the times they had lost track of hours discussing topics of mutual interest—conversations that no one else would have understood three words of. With April, he had never had to worry about toning down the technical jargon, never had to swallow his excitement as he often did with his brothers when they got that glazed over look that meant he'd lost them.

Then when Leo had gone away and Don was left in charge, April had been the one he had vented his frustrations to, confessed his deepest insecurities to—things he couldn't even bear to tell his father or his brothers. At times he'd felt like it was just him against the world, and that the pressure was going to crush him…but always when he had been afraid he was going to let everyone down, the knowledge that April was there for him had given him the strength to push on. Somehow, she'd always known exactly what to say to make him feel better—and even more importantly, when not to say anything at all.

And now, here she was—telling him that she'd fallen for Raph after a  _few evenings_  of watching TV and a single kiss … that they just  _made sense_ …

He didn't even know when he was finally able to take a breath, because all he could feel was his heart crumpling like a ball of tin foil, sharp and cold—until all that remained of the once warm, pulsing center of him was just a lump so dense he didn't know how it still remained suspended in his chest. And the pain of it was greater than anything he'd ever known.

_It had nothing to do with being in the right place at the right time—it wasn't even only because of Casey, or because I'm not human—she just didn't want me. All that time… Why, **why**  didn't she feel that way with  **me**?_

Before he knew it he was sinking to his knees beside the counter, breath coming in rapid, shallow gasps. His head was swirling, and the lump of frigid metal residing his chest grew increasingly heavier until it felt like it had sunken down to the pit of his stomach. She had known all of the best and worst things about him—he had held nothing back… and somehow it wasn't enough.  _He_ wasn't enough. Donatello thought he might hyperventilate, or pass out, or throw up, but something worse happened instead—he began to cry again. Not with the convulsive, cleansing sobs that might have eased some of his suffering, but quietly. Painfully. Scorching tears erupting by the sheer force of the great pressure building inside of him—molten rivers of agony squeezed from his very soul.

Then, through the thick magma of his suffering, he felt a cool hand lightly touch his shoulder, and he flinched, shrugging it off.

"Don't. Just… don't," he choked out. He couldn't bear for her to touch him, to comfort him—not now. It hurt too much.

"Donny, I… I never meant to h-hurt you."

He could hear that she was crying now, too. And he hated himself, how weak he was—because even knowing that she was the source of his agony, even though he supposed he should feel at least a little glad that she was hurting too, the sound of her weeping just made him want to turn and gather her up in his arms, tell her it would be all right…

Until he remembered that the job of comforting her belonged to his brother now.

At that thought, something finally unclenched inside of him, and he tucked his head into shaking arms and cried bitterly, desolately, pressing himself against the side of the counter as if he could just melt in to it and disappear.

"Donny, please…" sobbed April, crying almost as hard as he. "Please, talk to me, let me help you…"

"You can't," he gasped out through his tears. "You can't h-help me… please, I just… need to be alone."

He was aware of April still sitting behind him for a time, obviously trying to regain some composure, but she did not speak or attempt to touch him again. Then he heard her stand up slowly, and her footsteps began to move away as she honored his request. Before she had gone too far, though, she paused. When she spoke, her voice was thick with emotion. "I'll call you, Don. You…you don't have to answer or anything, unless you want to, and I won't try and push you—but I just want you to know that I'll keep calling until you're ready to answer."

Still crying, he just listened to her footsteps as they faded away. It was over. He wished he could just curl up on the floor forever, curl up and die there—every shuddering breath he drew hurt so much that if he could have voluntarily stopped breathing, he would have done it just to stop the pain.

And although April's last words had made it clear that she wasn't giving up on him, he honestly didn't know what he was going to do. If seeing her, talking to her, brought even a small measure of the agony he was enduring now, there was no way he'd be able to handle it—and yet, the thought of  _not_ talking to her made him gasp as if he'd been plunged into an ice bath. Two different choices. Two separate pathways—but just then both looked like dead ends.

Several minutes later, when his sobs had begun to subside somewhat, he heard the soft padding of bare feet entering the room, and he knew it was Michelangelo. His brother approached and slowly settled himself on the floor near Don, shell against the counter. Don didn't look up, and Mikey just sat there quietly—making no move to touch him, just lending what comfort he could with his mere presence. And even in his misery, Don couldn't help but be amazed that someone like Mikey, who normally tried to fill every silence with talking, could still know instinctively when words just wouldn't help.

Minutes stretched on, and Don began to grow calmer, his breathing becoming almost normal aside from the occasional shuddering breath. Wiping his eyes, he finally turned around and sat with his shell up against the counter, mimicking his brother's posture and wrapping his arms around his knees. He felt completely hollow—emptied—like someone had scooped out his insides; but at least exhaustion seemed to be blunting the edges of his emotions somewhat. Already the events of the day were beginning to seem surreal, like he had watched them happening to someone else from far away.

Finally Michelangelo turned to look at him, and Don turned to gaze right back. Mike looked as if he wanted to say a million things, but when he finally opened his mouth all he said was, "Do you wanna talk about it?"

Don looked straight ahead again, and merely shook his head.

"Okay," Mikey said understandingly. "Well then, I guess we should be heading back. It's getting late."

"Yeah…" Donatello said, still staring blearily at nothing. He thought Mike would get up to leave then, but when his brother didn't move, Don turned his head back towards him. He searched Mikey's eyes, which were glossy with empathy… and something else.

"It's not your fault, bro," said Donny softly.

Mike's brow crinkled a little then, and he looked down, blinking rapidly and nodding.

Finally the orange-clad turtle drew a deep breath and sat forward. "So… I guess I'll see you tomorrow then," he said. But as he stood up, Mikey seized Don's hand gently and pressed a small parcel into his palm. "I saved you some cookies," he said by way of explanation, and he gave Don's shoulder a sympathetic squeeze as he left.

When he was gone, Don opened his hand and stared down at the cookies wrapped loosely in a napkin, and he would've given anything to live in his brother's world for a day—where cookies apparently mended everything.

 

* * *

 

April held loosely onto Michelangelo's shell as they whipped through the sewer tunnels, his mask tails lashing her face while the shell sled sent arcs of mucky water up behind them. They were cruising along at an extremely fast pace—after all, Mikey never drove any other speed—but at least he wasn't making whooping noises every time they took a turn as he had on their way there. He was definitely more subdued this time.

As they rode, jagged pieces of her talk with Don kept scratching across April's mind. She had known it wouldn't be easy, had told herself not to expect too much, but still she hadn't been prepared for the reality. Somehow, in spite of everything, she had pictured them being able to talk things out, calm and easy, just like they always had. April kept seeing his usually kind brown eyes flash at her, so full of anger, and worse—pain… kept seeing his hunched form as he knelt on the floor, crying, recoiling at her touch… She closed her eyes and clutched Mikey's shell a little tighter, fighting back tears yet again. There had been so much more she wanted to say to him—how much she valued his friendship, how much she appreciated how kind and witty and gentle he was, how damned  _brilliant_  he was, how he was like a brother to her…

Now she knew those were the last words he would have wanted to hear. As close as they had become over the years, there was no way she could have remained completely oblivious to the way Donatello felt about her—as hard as he had tried to hide it, his eyes had given him away at times. But she had hoped it was just a crush, that some of those feelings would have faded over time. She had even debated bringing it up, talking to him about it, but she hadn't wanted to seem presumptuous or embarrass him. And of course, there was always Casey… Now, looking back on it, she knew she just been deceiving herself. God, how could she have been so blind and, and  _stupid!_

Finally the sled began to slow, and she knew they were drawing closer to the lair. As they approached, Raph materialized out of the shadows to one side, and Mike brought the sled to a halt.

"Hey Raph," Mike said simply, and there was no animosity in his voice.

"Hey," said Raph shortly with a curt nod to his brother, and then directed his attention to April. He was wearing his street clothes already—he'd had her fetch them from the lair when they'd learned Donatello wasn't there. "We'll just head topside from here," he said to her, and he stepped forward to give her a hand dismounting the sled.

When she was on dry land, April turned and gave Mikey a small smile. "Thanks for the ride."

"Anytime," he replied, and with a final nod to them he continued on his way to the lair.

They watched Michelangelo drive off, and after he was gone April just stood there, staring in the direction he'd gone and feeling the darkness settle on her body like a flurry of ravens on a roost. She could hear dripping from somewhere nearby, an uneven plink-plunk, and the lapping of water from the wake of the shell sled while the smell of mildew and stale garbage assailed her nostrils. And although they weren't touching, she could feel Raph—his stalwart presence just behind her.

"You okay?" he said gruffly.

She didn't trust herself to speak, and bit her lip in a vain attempt to stop more tears. They couldn't see one another—even ninjas need some ambient light to be able to see, and the sewer was devoid of anything but gravid darkness.

"Well, I didn't see any bruises or blood... you got off easier'n me, anyway," he said with attempted lightness.

When she still didn't respond he reached out, found her forearm, and grasped it gently to encourage her to turn around. Then his hand ghosted up her arm, following the pathway of it in the dark to trace his way up her shoulder, over the curve of her neck and finally to her face. There his fingers encountered the moisture accumulating on her cheek, and he gently brushed some of the tears away.

Then, in a choked voice, April finally said, "I'd rather have the bruises."

She heard him sigh sadly, and he traced back down until he found her hand. With all the tears she'd shed lately, he knew just what to do. Encasing her slender digits in his oversized ones, he held her hand firmly, giving a gentle squeeze. If he had done anything more than that, she would have broken down; anything less, and she would have done the same. Raphael knew… the grip of his hand, the strength of his presence was enough to get her to the apartment, to her room—where she could be alone. She couldn't…  _wouldn't_  allow herself the luxury of Raph's comfort and reassurance while she cried—not after what she had done to Casey, to Donatello… knowing that no one was comforting them. Instead she would shut herself away, as she always did, and collapse… let go… pouring her guilt and confusion and helplessness into her unresponsive pillow.

Only when the tempest of emotion had spent itself would she turn to Raphael, but he had never asked her for an explanation. He seemed to know, to understand the twisted logic behind her self-denial. After all, he had his own methods of punishing himself.

"C'mon, let's get you home," Raph said.

Clicking on a small light, he lead her along by a firm grip on her hand—and any further communication that night did not take place in words.

-=-=-=-=-=-


	5. Guilt and Control

It was four in the morning—much too early to be awake, even by his standards. If he hadn't been a light sleeper by nature, becoming a father to four boys who were always getting into trouble would have made him one. Sometimes, when he awoke unexpectedly during the night, he couldn't even be sure if it was because he had actually heard a noise, or simply because of a feeling. Regardless, though,  _something_  had caused him to wake up just now, and even without being able to pinpoint exactly how, he just knew—

Raphael had returned.

Splinter slipped smoothly out of bed and proceeded silently out to the common area, which was bathed in the dim bluish radiation of a nightlight plugged into the wall—a necessity for finding the way to the bathroom during the night… or in Michelangelo's case, more often than not the refrigerator. Raphael was at the bottom of the staircase, poised to begin his ascent, but he froze when he heard Splinter's voice.

"Raphael, I would like to speak with you."

The turtle turned slowly to look at him—half his face obscured by shadow, and the other half baptized in a glow that brought to mind the mutagen he had once been exposed to… A rebirth for all of them. His son didn't speak, but his body relaxed in submission, and Splinter turned and lead the way back to his room.

Once inside, the rat took his time lighting several candles while evaluating any extant olfactory clues. Sometimes, the minutes spent assessing the situation beforehand revealed more than the entire conversation following it. Nostrils flaring slightly, he inhaled slowly and began to sift through the delicate threads of scent filtering in. Raphael was nervous—he could pick that out immediately. The slightly acrid odors of sweat and anxiety were detectable even over the smell of soap that told him the turtle had recently showered. He even caught just a hint of the smell that could only be categorized as "the outdoors"… an entire medley of scents somehow belonging to the city. No cigarette smoke, no alcohol on his breath.

The same smells he had been detecting all month—and now at last he knew why. Raphael had been exceedingly cautious—always returning to the lair well before sunrise, never staying out late too many nights in a row, never keeping to any sort of schedule… always freshly showered. Some nights he would vanish for only a few hours, and sometimes he refrained from going out altogether. His brothers had not questioned him; they had naturally assumed he was spending a good deal of time hanging out with Casey, and knowing the circumstances they had given him the space to do so. He hadn't shirked training, and if he had looked wrung out at times, it was nothing to arouse suspicion. But Splinter had felt something was off. He suspected Leonardo had, too.

He turned and knelt, opting for a less authoritative position in the center of the mat rather than behind the low table. He gestured for the turtle to sit facing him, and Raphael knelt—shoulders hunched and head bowed slightly to the left.

"Look at me, my son."

Raphael hesitated for a moment, as if reluctant to obey, but eventually he met his father's eyes. He kept his head angled, though, and Splinter knew why. Raphael was always trying to protect his brothers—particularly when they weren't present to witness it.

"Let me see," said the father, and Raphael hesitated again before panning his head to face him straight on. When Splinter saw the left side of his son's face, even distorted as it was by flickering candlelight, he couldn't keep his eyes from widening in surprise. Leonardo had told him the details of the fight, but until he saw Raphael's swollen eye and bruised jaw, he didn't fully grasp the gravity of the situation—it was almost inconceivable that Donatello could have done this. And Splinter felt a pang as he realized how much his usually gentle son had to have been hurting to inflict this kind of damage on his brother.

Splinter let out a slow breath. "That must be painful. May I offer you anything before we continue?"

"No, m'fine," Raph mumbled, lowering his eyes.

"Very well, then." He paused for a moment before saying, "Raphael, I would like to ask you some questions, and I wish for you to speak openly. I know it is difficult, but remember that you are not on trial here, and I am certainly not trying to judge you. I only wish to understand." He placed a hand on his son's shoulder briefly, and waited until Raphael looked up at him. Then Splinter gave him a short nod of reassurance and folded his hands on his thighs. The turtle immediately looked down again.

"Now, what exactly is the nature of your relationship with April?"

Raphael's eyes darted up, a mixture of surprise and confusion on his face. "I thought… didn't Leo-"

"Yes, my son. But I wish to hear it from you." He was curious what words his son would choose.

"I guess… well, we're…" the turtle's brow furrowed a little, his eyes darting back and forth introspectively as he searched for a way to explain. Splinter could tell his son was uncomfortable, but the rat just waited patiently. Words were not Raphael's strength, and he took every opportunity to encourage his son to practice expressing himself verbally.

"…we're…  _together_ ," Raph said finally. He seemed almost surprised after he said it, as if he wasn't quite sure where the word had come from. Then his expression changed to one of wonder as he glanced back up at his father.

Splinter nodded in satisfaction, and gave a reassuring smile. It was better than he had dared hoped. In this case, Raphael could have gone with any number of equally honest descriptions, but he had chosen one that acknowledged more than just a shallow or purely physical relationship.  _Together._   _Unified. Bound._

Choosing his next words carefully to make sure Raphael would have to focus in on what he wanted to know, Splinter asked, "And why did you choose to withhold this information for so long from Donatello?" He kept his tone gentle so his son would not feel he was being attacked and become defensive.

Raphael's broad shoulders hunched even more and his head bowed lower. "I knew he wouldn't… I mean, I figured I'd, um… I just didn't know…" he fumbled, unable to decide which thought to go with.

"You suspected he might react… negatively?" Splinter suggested after a few moments.

The turtle nodded without looking up. The aged rat could only remember ever having seen Raphael this contrite a handful of times—most recently following Leonardo's capture by the Stone Generals. Always, it was when he had hurt someone he cared about.

"Why?" asked Splinter.

"Because, I knew… I mean, we all kinda guessed… uh, how he felt about her—about April," he clarified.

 _Good,_  thought Splinter. Raphael was not going to try and claim ignorance there.

"And I trust that it was not your intention to cause him pain?"

Raphael's head snapped up. "No," he said, sounding slightly appalled.

Splinter nodded. "I thought not." He paused, considering. "Then, now that I have those questions out of the way, let us go back to the beginning. Please tell me how all of this began."

So haltingly at first, and then with increasing smoothness as he realized his father wasn't going to interrupt, Raphael filled him in on the events of the last couple of months. Splinter listened carefully, and as usual he heard more than just the words. He heard in his son's gruff baritone voice just how much he cared for April, and how amazed he was to learn she cared for him too… he even caught subtle hints of Raphael's internal battle between acknowledging and following his own heart, and staying true to his friend and his brother. It had obviously been difficult for him—but in the end, whatever his brain had told him, Raphael had gone with his heart. And in that Splinter could not fault him.

Love, he reflected, was something that was neither logical nor premeditated, and to deny something so precious was simply against animal nature. Splinter's only regret was that Raphael's first experience with such things was also tainted with so much heartbreak.

When the turtle in red had finished speaking, Splinter could only think of one more question. "How long before you and April began… seeing each other… did you have these feelings for her?"

His son again looked up in mild surprise. "I… I didn't. I mean, sure, I thought she was h-… um, attractive, but you'd have to be blind not to see that. Beyond that, I never gave it a thought… I mean, it was  _April_. And she was Casey's girlfriend… ain't like I was tryin' to get her to like me or anything. Everything just… sorta happened once we started hangin' out together." He shrugged, not know what else to say.

"I see," said Splinter. "Thank you for your honesty, my son—that is all I wanted to know. You may go now, and I will see you at the usual time for training."

Raphael looked up, brow furrowed in confusion. "That's it?" he said.

Splinter nodded.

"But… but what's my punishment?"

The rat cocked his head. "Punishment? For what?"

"For, for fighting," said the turtle, still flummoxed.

"Raphael, you may correct me if I am wrong, but I was under the impression that Donatello attacked  _you_ ," Splinter said calmly.

"No—well… yeah, but he was, I mean, I provoked him!" Raph sputtered. "It was my fault!"

"You provoked him? How?" asked Splinter. He wondered if there was something he had missed.

"I told him about me an' April! And he was in the middle a workin' on something, an', an' it took him by surprise…" Raph searched for a way to explain further, but Splinter broke in.

"So what you did to provoke him was simply tell him the truth?"

The red-banded turtle opened his mouth, presumably to contradict this statement, but when he met his father's eyes he simply swallowed and looked down.

"Raphael? Is that correct?" Splinter persisted.

"Yes," replied Raph in a hoarse whisper.

"Then, in that you did nothing wrong. What you are guilty of is a simple error in judgment—something we are all guilty of from time to time. While you have the right to your privacy, you should not have kept this from your family for so long—especially knowing how it might affect Donatello. As for your 'punishment', all that will be required is a simple apology, provided you are genuinely sorry you did not tell him the truth sooner."

Instead of looking relieved at these words, though, Raphael just seemed to tense up. Splinter sighed inwardly, knowing that simply informing someone they were not to blame did not magically erase the guilt they felt. Once again, Splinter reached out and rested a hand on his son's shoulder. "Try not to worry, Raphael. He will come to understand," he said gently.

The turtle shook his head slightly, his hands curling into fists.

"What is it?" asked the father, sensing there was something more his son needed to say.

"It's just… well… April went over last night to talk to him… to apologize."

"Oh? And how did that go?"

"Not so good," said Raph wearily. The statement was simple, but his tone spoke volumes.

"But she is not… hurt?"

"No, no, nothing like that," the turtle said hurriedly. "At least not… well… it just didn't go well."

Splinter nodded understandingly. "Of course, he will need some time—it is understandable. But do not lose faith; he is your brother, after all."

Raphael nodded in response, though he did not seem at all convinced. Then the turtle rose slowly and left the room. After he was gone, Splinter shifted in to a more comfortable position on the mat. He knew he would not be able to go back to sleep, so he took advantage of the rare quietude and settled in to a light meditation until it was time for practice.

By the time Splinter entered the dojo hours later, Leonardo, Michelangelo, and Raphael were finishing up their stretches following the usual jog through the tunnels. Often he stretched with them, but Leonardo knew to begin without him if he did not arrive on time. This morning, Splinter went directly to an open section of the center mat, and sat cross-legged to wait for them to finish. Shortly after that he heard Donatello enter the lair, and when the purple-clad turtle entered the dojo, Splinter simply gestured for him to sit down nearby.

The turtle walked over and slowly settled himself down, only glancing briefly at Splinter before dropping his eyes and staring fixedly down a the mat.

"Good morning, my son," Splinter said calmly by way of greeting.

Don cleared his throat. "Morning, Sensei."

They both waited several more minutes in silence for the other three to finish, and when all were seated around him Splinter began outlining what he had in mind for the lesson.

"This morning we will be working on 2-on-1 combat strategies, both offensive and defensive. We will, of course, begin by practicing some specific skills together before—yes, Michelangelo?" he said, quirking up an eyebrow. The turtle in orange was holding up his arm as if waiting to be called on.

"Yeah, um, do we get to pick whether we're the 'two' or the 'one'? Cuz I really think I'd prefer-"

Splinter held up a hand to silence him. "We will be switching off… as you well know," he said sternly, giving Michelangelo a look that stifled the remainder of the turtle's comment. "As I was saying," he said, addressing them all once again, "we will practice together before moving on to sparring. And we will not use weapons today." There he paused for a moment, looking at his red-masked son, and said, "Raphael, you will be excused from sparring this morning."

Donatello slumped even lower at this edict, and kept his eyes focused downward. In contrast, Raphael's eyes instantly snapped up, and he opened his mouth as if to protest. Before he could, Splinter silenced him with a look and a barely perceptible shake of his head. The turtle's eye was practically swollen shut, and it was surely affecting his vision; Splinter knew that would be a major handicap in sparring. "You may choose some other activity when we are through practicing the movements together," he added with a note of finality that Raphael dared not argue with.

In response, Raph bowed his head again and mumbled, "Yes, Sensei."

Leonardo and Michelangelo both had enough sensitivity to curb their reactions to that announcement, knowing Donatello probably felt bad enough that his brother was prohibited from sparring because of injuries he himself had inflicted. And although Splinter could have chosen to tell Raphael in private, he wanted Donatello to hear and accept the consequences of his actions—it was a very serious matter. If one of them was too injured to fight effectively, it made the whole family that much more vulnerable… and they already had enough to worry about with regard to safety.

Moving on, Splinter gave a few more brief details before they all rose to practice. When the turtles had rehearsed the skills to his satisfaction, he dismissed Raphael and directed the others to move into position for sparring.

"Michelangelo, I believe you volunteered to be solo for the first round, so prepare for Donatello and Leonardo to attack you," he said.

"Uh, actually Master Splinter, I was gonna suggest-"

"Ready… go," the teacher said with a flicker of a smile, knowing that Michelangelo was not ready.  _But he will be next time_ , Splinter thought wryly as his youngest son was taken down in record time.

Splinter stayed for the duration of the sparring session, switching up the roles and giving corrections when needed. Donatello, grim faced and determined, was pushing himself harder than usual despite the fact that he was obviously exhausted, and Leonardo was all business as usual. If it weren't for Michelangelo, who was investing an extraordinary amount of energy into goofing off this morning, the session would have gone very smoothly. Splinter sighed inwardly, wishing his youngest son would put even a fraction of that energy into training seriously, but he knew Michelangelo's antics were geared towards cheering Donatello up, and because of that he could not bring himself to be too harsh with him. Even Leonardo was more tolerant than usual—Splinter could tell he was growing irritated, but the leader kept his mouth shut a good deal longer than he normally would have.

And still Michelangelo kept on—he quoted movie lines, performed dance moves in mid-combat, incorporated lots of slapstick falls and clumsy tackles into his attacks, and even pretended to be confused on who he was supposed to be attacking, clobbering a completely unprepared Leo instead of Don. He didn't try that one again, though, because Leonardo's patience was clearly wearing thin and it was all Michelangelo could do to stay on his feet for more than a few seconds during his next turn at defending. Finally Splinter called the activity to a halt when the orange-masked turtle bolted to the far side of the dojo and snatched a bokken to keep his brothers at bay, jabbing at them comically instead of trying to utilize any skill.

Splinter sighed wearily. "Okay, I think we are through for today," he declared, realizing things would only go downhill from there. Michelangelo gave an exaggerated sigh of relief and slowly lowered the weapon, only to be instantly pounced upon by Leonardo.

"Aaaghnrph, Leo, get off!" Mike yelled, limbs flailing. "Dude, training's OVER!"

"Oh, really?" Leo said as he tightened his newly won choke hold. "Hmmm, I guess I was just  _confused_ ," he said, his mouth quirking up at one side.

Splinter looked on in mild amusement as the two goofed around a bit more, wrestling playfully and mocking one another, but Donatello just exhaled deeply and walked heavily towards the door.

"Donatello," Splinter said, stopping his son as he was exiting the dojo. "I would like to speak with you." He paused, sniffing delicately. "After you have showered," he added.

"Yes, Sensei," his son replied quietly. The turtle started to move away, but the rat put a hand on his shoulder, halting him again.

"And Donatello?"

The turtle looked up questioningly.

"See that you have something to eat before you see me," he directed, his eyes softening slightly. Splinter knew that when his son was preoccupied by something, he didn't always take care of himself.

His son nodded in acquiescence before leaving. Splinter then proceeded to the kitchen to make a pot of tea before returning to his quarters to freshen up and wait for Donatello. Once seated behind his table, he cupped both hands around the mug and thought about how to proceed. His gifted son had always presented somewhat of a problem when it came to matters of discipline.

When the turtles were younger he had often assigned them additional chores if they misbehaved, or else he had restricted fun activities. As they grew older, he had tried to tie in punishments with the offending actions—if lack of focus or discipline was the problem, for example, he might assign extra meditation or training sessions. He tried to avoid making training and meditation seem like punishments, although he was sure it sometimes felt that way to his sons—but at such times he had tried to impress upon them that the extra activities he was assigning were supposed to help them adjust their behavior in the future.

Now that they were no longer teenagers, discipline was becoming a different matter. Certainly it was still necessary, if for no other reason than because they all had to share living space. And Splinter could not deceive himself into thinking that early twenties came with much more wisdom than late teens… He shook his head and smiled slightly at the very thought, remembering all the trouble they still got into. He probably could have continued using the same techniques in spite of the fact that they were well grown now—and sometimes he still did. But more and more he was beginning to move away from that in favor of encouraging his sons to try and take steps towards rectifying the situation themselves. In essence, the "punishment" was forcing them to deal with the direct consequences of their actions… and he knew that was often much more difficult to do than extra chores or workouts.

Sipping the tea, he brought his mind back to the issue at hand. Even from a young age, he had not often had cause to punish Donatello; when he did, it was usually because the youngster's extreme curiosity would get the better of him, or because of his tendency to neglect certain responsibilities when he became preoccupied with his own projects. When disciplined, though, the Donatello had always calmly accepted his "sentence", carrying it out dutifully and with genuine contrition. But thinking of appropriate punishments for him had been quite a problem even then. How could Splinter assign extra chores to someone who, practically since he was a child, had contributed so much to make the lair comfortable and livable? It was difficult to add to the young turtle's workload when he voluntarily took so much of it on in the first place. And how could he restrict him from fun activities when, for Donatello, they usually consisted of inventing, repairing, and building devices that often benefited the entire family?

In general, Donatello did his best in training, was inordinately patient with his family, and pulled what Splinter often felt was more than his fair share of weight with regard to household maintenance. And all of this with hardly a complaint. Oh, he did have his moments of stubbornness or selfishness or anger, but so did they all.

Now, the wizened rat was rather at a loss as to what to do. Should he suggest extra meditation for focus? He shook his head silently. Donatello already had focus in abundance, as was apparent when it came to working on projects. And in truth, Splinter knew that there was no simple fix for this anyway. He had little tolerance for fighting within the family, but he was not immune to the painful position his son was in. His  _sons_  were in, he corrected himself. And he had no direct experience with situations such as these, although he was quite familiar with them in concept through his soap operas—thank goodness for that much, at least. But fascinating as they were, the stories in no way helped him prepare for something like this. He was on his own.

By the time Donatello arrived, Splinter was no closer to arriving at an appropriate course of action, and he decided he had no choice but to go with the flow and see how things played out.

"Kneel, my son," he directed when his son entered the room.

Donatello did as instructed, and waited in silence for his father to speak.

"Did you have something to eat?"

"Yes, Sensei."

"Good," the rat said approvingly. "Would you care for some tea?"

"No… thank you," he answered quietly.

Splinter studied him for a moment before sayng, "Then, since I am sure you already know why I have called you in here, allow me to… what is the saying? Ah, 'cut to the chase'." He inhaled deeply, and exhaled again. He was not sure how to phrase his next question delicately, but he had to make sure he was not making any false assumptions. "Would I be… correct in thinking you have had romantic feelings towards April?"

"Yes," came Donatello's barely audible response.

"And it was at least partly these feelings that resulted in yesterday's incident?"

"Yes."

Splinter was not surprised, but it did make what he had to say next more difficult. "Then, while I can sympathize with how you must be feeling, I am sure you know that it does not excuse your behavior," he said sternly. "I am… shocked, to say the least, that you would attack your brother."

The turtle showed no reaction to this, and Splinter continued. "I have already spoken with both Leonardo and Raphael, therefore I am not going to ask you to explain how this happened. However, I would like to offer you the chance to add anything you wish to say."

Keeping his eyes down, Donatello said softly, "There's really nothing for me to say… I just… lost control."

Splinter remained quiet, hoping his son would say something more enlightening, something to give him a clue of how to proceed from here—but he did not. Splinter repressed a sigh. Donatello was not usually so uncommunicative.

"And how do you feel about that?" he probed after a moment.

"I feel….ashamed…and afraid," Donatello admitted, and his body seemed to deflate with those words.

"My son, I do not want you to be afraid of talking to me."

Donatello shook his head. "No, it's not that… I'm afraid that if, if it happened once, it could happen again, and I….I  _hated_  feeling like that—like I wasn't in control of my own actions."

Splinter sighed sympathetically. "My son, although self-control is a virtue, everyone loses control at times—it does not mean there is something wrong with you. We are not machines; we are not always ruled by our minds." He knew that was probably a difficult reality for someone like Donatello—logic and practicality were so much a part of his nature.

Donatello still said nothing, and the rat did not know what questions to ask to reach him. Taking a deep breath, he reluctantly decided to test other waters.

"Raphael informed me that you and April spoke last night."

The turtle's shoulders tightened but still he didn't look up.

"Maybe you should begin by telling me about that."

Donatello bowed his head even lower and squeezed his eyes shut tight. His hands, which were resting on his thighs, didn't move—but the father could see by the way the muscles in his arms contracted that he was pressing down hard. Splinter just waited, knowing he was becoming emotional.

Finally his son swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, "Forgive me, Master, but I can't."

One of Splinter's ears flicked forward slightly at this. That was not what he had expected to hear. "I know it is not easy," he said gently, "but it might help to talk about it."

"No… you don't understand," Donatello said in a choked voice. "I  _physically_  can't… I can't talk about it right now, I can barely  _think_  about it right now and keep control. I'm just so tired of talking, and of, of getting upset, and trying to understand, and I'm tired of… I'm just plain tired! Everything's happened so fast, and I haven't even had time to wrap my brain around any of it! I just need… I need some time to think!"

Splinter watched his son closely, noticing that his arms were shaking slightly now. Donatello was indeed very close to breaking down, and the rat knew that did not often happen. The purple-clad turtle was capable of bearing enormous amounts of pressure and strain, as he had proven often enough. He had coolly disarmed bombs while surrounded by enemies, tended to Leonardo both when he had been poisoned and when he'd been almost killed by the Foot, and he somehow managed to come up with ideas, even in the midst of battle, that had saved them more times than Splinter wanted to count. And yet here he was now, admitting that even words were beyond his present capabilities. Finally, he knew what to do—Donatello had just told him.

"Then," said Splinter, "that is what I will give you—time to think."

For the first time since entering the room, Don's head came up, and he looked at Splinter with wet and slightly confused eyes.

"There is no group training tomorrow, and missing another day will not matter. Would two days suffice?" Splinter asked.

Donatello blinked, trying to clear his eyes, and he looked down thoughtfully. "Yes," he said slowly. "That's… I mean, that sounds fine." He looked up again, relief causing his expression to relax some. "Thank you, Master Splinter."

"You are welcome, Donatello. We will talk again in two days' time then," he said, making in clear that the discussion was merely on hiatus. "Will you go back to Leatherhead's?"

"I'll have to call him, but… I think so," replied the turtle.

Nodding again, Splinter said, "Then we are through for now. Please do not forget to take your phone in case we wish to reach you." Then on afterthought, he added, "And I shall see to it that your brothers know they are to leave you alone unless it is something very important."

His son thanked him again, and bowed low before departing. But Splinter remained where he was a good deal of time afterward, thinking things over. He still did not know where this was going, but he could feel something… different about Donatello. Something was changing. It was very elusive, and possibly even imagined, but it made Splinter uneasy. He decided to spend a lot of time meditating during his son's absence in hopes that it might help prepare him in some way for their next discussion. Change was not necessarily bad… but in Splinter's experience, it was always difficult.

* * *

"Hey Mikey," Don said as he paused near the couch. For a moment he just watched Michelangelo, who was sitting in front of the TV furiously tapping buttons of his controller and leaning back and forth with the character on the video game. His tongue was poking out the side of his mouth in concentration. "Mikey!" Donatello repeated when there was no response.

"What!" said Mike distractedly.

"Look, can you pause that for a sec?"

"Dude, I—aaaah! THAT WAS NOT FAIR!" he yelled as he sent the controller skittering across the floor. "I was SO robbed! No way that guy shoulda been able to recover that fast! When my guy goes down, it's like he decides to take a nap down there, but THIS guy bounces up like he's made of  _rubber_!" Mike vented.

Don rolled his eyes—he'd heard it all before.

"C'mon, you saw that, didn't you?" said Michelangelo, gesturing at the screen. "Stupid, cheating, rigged piece of sh—,"

"I get it, I get it," said Don. "But I can't help but find it just a bit ironic that you can get so wrapped up in games like…" He gestured at the screen, searching his memory for the name of this latest game.

"Blood Match: The Reckoning," supplied his younger brother.

"Right," Don said with a grimace. "You can play 'Blood Match: The Reckoning' non-stop for hours and hours, but you take every opportunity to goof off when we're training. Mikey, you can actually  _do_  a lot of that stuff! I mean, I bet if there was a game where you could fight with nunchakus, you'd think it was the greatest thing ever!"

Mikey's eyes grew wide as he stared up at Don, and they glazed over somewhat as his imagination took off running. "You. Are. A. Genius, Donatello," his brother said in awe. "You should totally make something like that! I bet—hey…" Michelangelo broke off abruptly as his eyes snagged on the bag slung over his brother's shoulder. "You going somewhere?"

"Yeah. That's actually what I was trying to tell you a minute ago. I'm taking off so-"

"WHAT!"

"Just for a couple of days!" Don added quickly at the panicked look on Mike's face.

The younger turtle searched his face wildly for a moment, and then exhaled in relief. "Aw man," he breathed. "For a minute there, I thought maybe Master Splinter was sending you away or somethin'… you know, like…" He didn't finish, but Don knew what he'd been about to say.  _Like Leonardo_.

Don shook his head. "No, no, it's nothing like that—I just need some time to think, and Master Splinter agreed to let me have a couple of days off. And what I was gonna tell you is that since this afternoon was supposed to be my lesson with Master Splinter, he told me to tell you you're up instead."

Michelangelo scowled at that, and Don figured his brother's blissful plans for a Blood Match marathon had just swirled right down the pipes. Donatello shrugged. "Sorry," he said.

Then Mike furrowed his brow a little and said, "So, let me get this straight… you kick Raph's shell, and Master Splinter gives you time off?"

Don didn't bother to comment—he could see where this was leading.

Mike stood up and withdrew his chucks. "I could use some time off…" he said thoughtfully to himself, and he began to move towards the dojo, where the repetitive muffled whumps of fists on a punching bag could be heard.

Reaching out and grabbing Mikey's shoulder, Don said, "I don't think that's gonna work, bro."

"No, no, it's cool, I got it! I beat him in the Battle Nexus-"

"Mikey, that was years ago! And we didn't even compete in the last one, so technically-"

"…and he's still recovering from the licking  _you_  gave him," Mike said, as if he hadn't heard Don. "It's perfect!"

"Sure, perfect," said Don sarcastically. "But just answer me one thing first."

"Huh? What's that?"

"What's your favorite video game these days?" asked Donatello.

Michelangelo looked slightly perplexed, but he said, "I dunno, I don't think I could choose. Why?"

Don shrugged. "I just thought it might help to know which one we should bury you with."

Mike stared at him for a second, and then laughed. "Alright, I get your point." He tucked his chucks back in his belt and stood regarding Don for a moment. "I'll see you in a couple days then," he said slowly, and although his smile remained in place, his eyes were asking for a promise.

"Yeah. See you then," Donatello replied, meeting his eyes. But he didn't know if his younger brother recieved the reassurance he was looking for.

-=-=-=-=-=-


	6. Broken Cycles

The night greeted him in a rush of wind when Donatello lifted the manhole cover, as if it had been waiting with bated breath for him to surface. The turtle silently replaced the steel disc and climbed swiftly up the nearest fire escape, the breeze fluttering the tails of his mask as he made his way to the roof.

Once at the top, Don paused against a ledge and drew a deep, slow lungful of the fresh air—fresh, at least, in comparison to that of the labyrinthine tunnels he'd just emerged from. He took his time gazing out over the city from on high, his eyes scanning over the streets and buildings, taking in seemingly random details for assimilation in the swarming center of his mind. That was the way his brain worked—gathering pieces of the world and ordering them in direct defiance of the second law of thermodynamics. This world, and all things in it, naturally tended move from order to disorder—unless some stronger force dictated otherwise.

Facing into the wind, Don found himself thinking about the time he had first learned about thermodynamics—the flow of energy. He and his brothers had not yet reached their teens, and Splinter had found a discarded science book and brought it home for them to do lessons from. His brothers had done the required reading, but Don had never been one to stop at the basics. That book had become his constant companion for a time, though it had reeked strongly of garbage, and he hadn't been able to resist expounding upon the information he found in it—even during what his brothers considered inappropriate times.

_Thanks to his fortunate ability to block out background noise when he was concentrating, Donatello was utterly oblivious to the arguing of his brothers around him. Although technically he was a player in the game spread out between them on the floor, at the moment it was simply no competition for the content of the science book laying open across his lap. He had only conceded to playing in the first place after realizing his brothers would not leave him alone unless he did. This particular game had been a major find by Master Splinter on one of his recent foraging trips, and even though many of the pieces and cards were missing, the game board and the instructions were both in relatively good condition._

" _Ha! You're a goner now!" Leonardo was saying to Raph, rubbing his hands together in malicious glee. "Mikey, how's my building coming?"_

" _Almost done," said Michelangelo as he frowned with concentration and added another Lego to an already impressive looking structure. Mike, too, had initially been reluctant to join in, having grown bored with the game after playing a few times. Raph and Leo had finally talked him into it by expanding the game to include the role of architect, which appealed much more to Mikey's creative side. And although he played his turn when it came up, he cared little about the actual goal of the game. Instead, he threw himself into the task of building or improving structures for his brothers and earning money by charging them for the service._

" _There! You should be able to charge a pretty penny for this one," said the grinning turtle in orange, passing over the completed project as he accepted a handful of rumpled money from Leonardo. Leo took the building and placed it alongside the yellow squares Raph was headed for on the board, and grinned evilly at his brother._

_Raphael shot him a dirty look, and rolled the die._

" _Ha! Five!" crowed Leo. "That'll put you right on Atlantic Avenue!"_

_The red-masked turtle scowled at his brother and proceeded to move his game piece, a plastic army man, along the board. Just before reaching the destination, however, he glanced slyly at Leonardo and stopped his piece on the B & O Railroad. Then he moved it kitty-corner across the board to the Short Line Railroad, completely skipping Leonardo's yellow path of doom._

" _Raph! You can't do that! You owe me rent for the hotel," said Leo, holding out his hand expectantly._

_Raphael smirked. "Naw, I don't owe you a dime—I wouldn't set one foot in yer sleazy motel. Took the train instead."_

_Leonardo's eyes narrowed. "Fine, then you can go back to jail til you learn to play by the rules—you must be starting to feel pretty at home there by now anyway," he said, pulling out a card from a pile and laying it down in front of Raph._

_GO TO JAIL. GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL. DO NOT PASS GO. DO NOT COLLECT 200 DOLLARS ._

" _You ain't the police, you can't send me to jail!" protested Raph._

" _Aren't."_

" _I—huh?"_

" ' _You_ _aren't_ _the police,' " Leo said condescendingly. "See, you're even breaking grammar rules! And you certainly can't just cut all over the board like that!"_

" _I_ ain't _breakin' any rules! It's called a_ _short-cut_ _, Leo—all I gotta do is pay the owner of the railroad, and that's Don on all four counts. Donny, how much do I owe ya?"_

" _Huh?" said Don, looking up from his book at the sound of his name. "Oh, right, that'll be 200 dollars," he said distractedly. "Hey, you guys, did you know that all the energy in the universe is constant? It seems like it's infinite, but it's all just the same stuff being recycled over and over and over again!"_

" _200 dollars is more than you'd have to pay me for Atlantic Avenue!" protested Leo, ignoring Don's statement. Then he turned to Donatello. "And are you even gonna pay attention to the game, Donny?!"_

_Don looked up at him blankly for a moment, and then accepted the money Raphael thrust at him. "Yeah, uh, I am paying attention! I'm the banker AND I'm managing the railroads—once Mikey builds the improved trains I ordered, I can charge even more and—,"_

" _Yeah, sure, you're so into the game that you didn't even notice that Raph just stole money from the bank and used it to pay you!"_

_Raph threw up his hands. "Hey, what can I say—security's lax at that joint."_

" _That's it, you're going to jail this time!" Leo plucked up Raphael's army man and moved him to the appropriate corner square._

" _Hey! I don't hafta go to jail if the banker didn't catch me!"_

" _Well_ _ **I**_ _caught you! I saw you take the money—and I saw you the time before that, and the time before that!"_

" _Well then, lucky for me prison security's lax, too—I'm bustin' out," Raphael responded, and he rescued his man from jail and moved him to the GO square. "Now I get my 200 dollars and—,"_

" _YOU WEREN'T EVEN AT THAT SQUARE!" yelled Leo, gesturing heatedly._

" _You're the one that put me off track in the first place!"_

" _Whoa!" said Don loudly. Everyone looked up at him—even Mikey, who was usually oblivious to everything when he was building. "This is_ _amazing_ _, absolutely incredible! I never thought… I mean, it makes perfect sense, but I never would have been able to describe it like this! It's… it's brilliant!"_

_When Raph and Leo realized Donatello was just talking about his moldy science book, they rolled their eyes and carried on with their debate, with Raphael threatening to vandalize Leonardo's new hotel if he wasn't allowed to collect his 200 dollars. Par for the course, the game ended prematurely a short time later with Leo and Raph rolling on the game board as they scuffled, scattering game cards, Legos, and money across the floor._

_Don looked on unfazed. "See, Mikey? Rudolf Clausius totally could've predicted this," he said, gesturing importantly at his still battling brothers._

_Mike furrowed his brow. "What, Leo and Raph fighting? Sorry, Donny, I'm not impressed. Even I could've predicted that."_

" _No, no!" replied Donatello. "Well, I mean, maybe the fighting's part of it, but what I really mean is that he could've predicted this ending in chaos—it's the second law of thermodynamics. Things always move from order to chaos!"_

_Mikey cocked his head, his full attention on Don. "Sounds like a strange law to make," he said._

" _Well, he didn't really invent the concept—he was just the first one to put a name to it, to describe it. It's really a law of the… of the UNIVERSE! Like the law of gravity. See, it works like this," said Donny, not even checking to see if Mike was listening. He was used to his brothers tuning him out, but this was just TOO HUGE to let it go by without saying anything. "In nature, in civilizations, in the whole world, everything tends towards disorder. Like how leaves fall from trees in autumn, and just get scattered everywhere. Then people rake them into neat piles, adding an element of order to the chaos. But THEN, the wind blows the leaves around again! See? That's how everything works. The leaves never fall naturally into piles. Everything gets messy, and then some other, more powerful force is needed to put things in order. I mean, if that weren't true, we'd never have to clean the lair—it'd just clean itself. But thanks to entropy, we're stuck in a constant and endless battle against chaos!"_

_Don had almost forgotten he'd been talking to Mikey in the first place, but when he glanced over he saw his blue-eyed brother looking at him in rapt attention. He was gaping at Don, and suddenly he rose, saying, "Donny, wait right there. Don't move. I'm gonna get my notebook, and then I want you to say that again so I can write it down!"_

_Watching Mike scurry away, Don was stunned. Was his brother trying to trick him? It would be just like Mikey to come back and laugh at him for believing he was interested in some idiotic scientific theory. But the younger turtle returned momentarily with his treasured drawing notebook under his arm, and he stretched himself out on the floor and made himself comfortable. He opened the book to a blank page and, holding his pencil ready, looked expectantly up at Don._

_Still wary of some kind of trick, Donatello slowly repeated the concept of the second law of thermodynamics. But all his brother did was write rapidly as he spoke, occasionally asking him to repeat something or sound it out better so he could get everything down._

_When he had it all down to his satisfaction, Mike read his work over and sighed happily. "Thanks, Donny, this is perfect!" he said. Then he got up and made his way to his room, still glancing over his notes as he went._

_Don just stared after him as he left, then looked down at his science book. Slowly he began to smile, running his hand down the page thoughtfully, and then he rose to retreat to his own room. He stepped around the rubble left in the wake of Raphael and Leonardo, who had apparently decided to determine the winner of the Monopoly game with a full blown sparring match in the dojo._

_Donatello spent the next two hours feverishly book-marking pages in the text and making notes on sections to share with Mikey later. He just couldn't_ _believe_ _that one of his brothers had actually been interested in what he was saying—and Michelangelo at that! Maybe, with some further enlightenment, his little brother would take an even greater interest! The prospect of being able to actually discuss such things with anyone had Don literally squirming with excitement. When he next noticed the time, he realized with a start that Master Splinter would be coming in any minute for room inspection. Although they were granted free time for part of every afternoon, a portion of it was expected to be devoted to chores._

_Don hastily scrambled up and began tidying his cluttered room. It didn't have to be perfect, they were only expected to do thorough cleanings once a week or so, but they were supposed to have things fairly neat by dinner time. Donatello remembered somewhat guiltily that he'd left the game for Raph and Leo to clean up, but then he supposed they had made a good deal of the mess anyway._

_As Donny was close to finishing up, he saw Master Splinter heading to Michelangelo's room, and he breathed a sigh of relief. It would buy him a few minutes since Mikey invariably had additional work that needed to be done before their Sensei was satisfied. Don had just finished the final touches when Splinter arrived._

" _Ah, Donatello," said the Master Splinter as he stepped inside the room. Don bowed respectfully before meeting his eyes, and was a bit confused when he noticed that his father looked rather more stern than usual. After all, his room was clean._

_The rat eyed Donatello for a moment before asking, "Did you tell Michelangelo he did not need to clean his room?"_

_Don was utterly at a loss for a moment at the absurdity of such a question, and he felt a flash of anger. "No, Sensei! I, I don't know why Mikey would've said that," he said defensively, "but he's lying! I never-,"_

_Splinter put his hand up, silencing him. "I believe you, Donatello. But perhaps you can help me understand what Michelangelo may have meant when he spoke of a… 'law' that states he does not need to clean up messes?"_

" _I don't…" he began, but then comprehension dawned on him, and his shoulders slumped a little. "Oh. I was trying to teach him about entropy," the turtle said._

_Splinter cocked his head slightly, and Donatello, recognizing the question on his face, slowly retrieved the science book off of his bed. He opened it to the thermodynamics section, and brought it before his sensei._

" _It's in here," he said dully, and all of the sudden he felt very tired. "The second law of thermodynamics, or the law of entropy, explains that things move from order to disorder. So I was telling Mikey that no matter how much we clean the lair, it'll just keep getting messy again."_

_Splinter studied the book for a moment. "I see," he said. "It was just a misunderstanding then. I will set your brother straight." He handed the book back to Donatello, and then surveyed the room. "This looks fine—we will be eating shortly, so please make sure you clean your hands."_

_Donatello nodded silently, not trusting himself to speak, and waited with downcast eyes for his father to leave. But the rat must have noticed the difference in his son's posture, because he remained standing there until Don looked up again. Splinter studied him a moment longer, then smiled reassuringly._

" _Do not worry, Donatello. You are not in any trouble," he said, and Don knew the words were intended to comfort him. He did not correct his father as to the cause of his dejection._

" _Thank you, Sensei," Don whispered, and he desperately willed his father to go away. As Splinter retraced his steps to Mike's room, Donatello stood fighting back tears…but it was a losing battle. He brushed them away angrily—he was much too old to cry over something like this. It was his own fault anyway. Stupid, really, thinking Mikey might actually be interested in any of this stuff. Of course he was only trying to get out of cleaning his room—Don was an idiot not to have seen it. He opened up the book he still held, running his hand slowly down the page once more before turning it upside down and shaking it gently. He watching with blurred eyes as scraps of paper covered in his scrunched handwriting fluttered to the floor, ragged pieces of his thoughts instantly marring the newly instilled order of the room._

_Don stood composing himself for a time, not wanting his family to know he'd been crying, and he could hear Michelangelo's bitter protests coming from the next room._

" _But Sensei, it's not fair! How can I be expected to keep things clean if the entire_ _universe_ _is working against me?!"_

Donatello shook his head, trying to clear it of the unexpectedly vivid memory. He didn't even know precisely what had made him think of it, but that was exactly what he felt like now—the whole universe was against him, scattering the brittle leaves of his thoughts with all the reckless apathy of an autumn wind. His mind was in disorder… chaos. And if he didn't find some way to make sense of it, put it back in order, he felt that he himself might crumble into pieces and join the litter flecking the city streets below.

He had been trying to use his time off effectively, falling back on all the usual tricks to introduce some order to his thoughts—but so far nothing had worked. He'd tried working on mindless projects so he could remain calm while letting his thoughts wander, he'd tried doing katas and simple workouts, and he'd even tried just forcing himself to do nothing but relax and think. But instead of helping, all it did was make his thoughts turn in dizzy circles, wheeling like a kettle of vultures over carrion far below.

Finally it had occurred to him that if he didn't want his  _mind_  to go in circles, maybe he should let his  _body_  move forward and hope his thoughts would follow. And that was why he was here—high above the city with its columns of orthogonal plateaus stretching against the horizon. The moist, fecund breath of early spring, both tingling and soothing, caused him to shudder slightly as it played along his skin. Maybe it was the approaching vernal equinox that made everything tonight seem both sharp and yet somehow soft—the biting air on the cusp of warmth, the wicked syringes of the skyscrapers pricking against the pale pink balloon of clouds reflecting the city lights, the torrent of muted colors washing out from the city in every direction only to be cleaved abruptly by sharp-edged shadows.

Donatello couldn't pinpoint the reason for it, but something about the night made him feel like he was on the brink of an epiphany. Filled with both apprehension and anticipation, he finally turned away from the ledge and drew one more deep breath of the invigorating air. Then he began to run.

At first he didn't even attempt to think—in fact, letting his brain go blissfully blank for a while sounded like heaven. So instead he turned his mind inward, focusing on his physical actions, concentrating on making his strides long and his breathing even. He set a swift but steady pace, not employing any of the more showy flips and handsprings usually executed by himself and his brothers in an attempt to outdo one another in style, and soon blood and adrenaline were fairly singing through his body. With the subsequent natural high and the wind on his face, he felt more alive than he had in days—but it did little to abolish the constant, hollow ache of the charred crater in his chest.

In spite of that pain, or perhaps because of it, Donatello pushed on determinedly and soon found his rhythm, entering the familiar state in which his body was more or less on autopilot—he'd be able to maintain this pace for quite some time without strain, and this was normally when his mind would really begin to go to work. But this time he postponed the inevitable thoughts by turning his senses outward, focusing on the arrhythmic convulsions of the living city below.

First the sounds—he could hear the blaring of horns, voices from the streets below, and music of all types swelling and blending together into the dissonant amalgamation that was the theme song of New York City. The smells of exhaust and garbage and food from dozens of restaurants came to him interspersed on the breeze, and though he couldn't see much of the city beyond brief glimpses as he leapt between buildings, he didn't need to—he had beheld the sights often enough. Cars lined up along the streets, pedestrians weaving their way along the sidewalks, a trickle or a rush depending on the time and the place, but endless as the concrete they trod. And even as high up as he was, he could  _feel_  the city's inhabitants—the stifling warmth of them pressing around him, their heartbeats throbbing in unison, trying to force his own rhythm to match that of the collective urban pulse.

The people that followed the sidewalks were fixed on their courses, stepping along the straight and narrow pathways illuminated by streetlights just as their derelict counterparts kept to separate but parallel routes in the shadows. The civilians in the light kept their eyes forward or on their peers, their myopic gazes never extending to the darkened alleys at the periphery—safe with the knowledge that if they didn't look to the side, those other pathways didn't exist.

Of course, the people seldom looked up to the rooftops, either.

At that thought, something sparked in Don's mind, and he stumbled and almost went down. He recovered himself, but only pushed on harder—he was on the verge of an understanding, he could feel it—he needed only to run faster to grasp it.

_Entropy…pathways… What's the connection? What am I not getting?_

Running, legs pounding like pistons.

_A stronger force is needed to instill order on the chaos…_

Heart pumping, muscles stretching and contracting.

_People only see what's in the light…_

Huffing breaths, air scraping like sandpaper across his lungs.

Donatello peeled around a corner, changing direction to head towards the next short leap, then an extra push and he was out and over the gap—and for just an instant as he hung midway over the alley, he looked down, and an image was burned on his brain. His leap was perpendicular to a dark corridor that joined the streets on either side, either direction leading to separate and equally bright pathways. As he ran on, eyes focused ahead, the image of the corridor was superimposed on his own pathway, and suddenly he saw them—parallel trajectories on both sides of his own, so bright it was as if the sun was actually shining down on them. He blinked, trying to clear his eyes, and almost tripped again in shock as understanding came to him at last.

_I'm just like those people!_   _I've never see the other pathways. My whole life has been filled with choices I've never bothered to consider because they weren't lit up for me! And because of that, because I've let events passively carry me along without providing direction, my life's becoming chaos!_

He was panting heavily now, but it was due just as much to excitement of this breakthrough as it was to the exertion of his body. His mind was running free now, too, and he thought about recent events with a new awareness.

He and April had been friends for a long time—and he'd been half in love with her for a good portion of it. Yet instead of saying anything, instead of pursuing what could have been ultimate happiness, he'd contented himself with living in the glow of her presence—pathetically absorbing as much of the indirect warmth as he could, telling himself it was enough. That had been his choice. Don knew he couldn't help his feelings towards her, but he could have been open, told her how he felt. And probably she would have refused him. But if she had, maybe he would have moved on a long time ago.

His muscles were burning now with the strain of the sustained pace, his breathing becoming ragged. He knew he wouldn't be able to keep up this speed much longer, but he couldn't stop yet.

How many other choices in his life had he failed to consider? Was he even really  _living_  the life he wanted right now, or was he just following where the current took him, letting it pull him along because he was lazy and it was smoother that way? Content to follow his brothers, listen to his sensei, as long as he had some spare time to fiddle with inventions in between. Was that living?

He was wise enough, or perhaps just logical enough, to understand that life wasn't about making the "right" choices…there was no such thing. But from now on, he didn't  _ever_  want to look back and say, "I never realized I had a choice." Life was  _all_  about the choices… how come he had never seen that before?!

With a start, Don realized he was doing it even now—following a pre-determined pathway, the well known route of one of their oft-run training courses. He could practically see his brothers ahead of him, leading him along, launching across to the next familiar rooftop, and he skidded to an abrupt halt at the edge.

Gasping, rivulets of sweat running down his body, Don considered his choices. Ahead of him was the usual way. To the right was a less familiar possibility. They never went that way—it was darker, the gaps were a bit wider, and the nearest rooftop was slightly elevated in comparison to the one he currently stood on. Much more risky… and he'd be going alone. But just then the breeze played up around him again, eddying out into the gap between the buildings, teasing and leading him on, promising support. The shadows in the abyss below, though, waited for him, too… hoping he would leap and fall into the hungry depths.

The night wind circled him in anticipation as Don regained his breath and weighed the choices. Then his eyes narrowed in determination and he curled his fingers tightly around his bo.

_If you don't want things to be the way they've always been, don't do what you've always done._

It was time to break the cycle.

He looked to the right once more, sizing up the gap, and retreated a good distance before sprinting to the edge. Using his bo for an extra push, he went sailing into the void, out over the sharpened, eager shadows…

…and landed in a crouch on the far rooftop. He straightened, gazing around him at the unfamiliar territory, and realized it didn't seem so much darker here after all—it had only looked that way from the other side.

* * *

April cracked open her eyes and blinked at the sunlight stealing in through the blinds like a beneficent trespasser. By the intensity of it, she could tell that the morning was well advanced, and she wondered groggily how she could have managed to sleep so late. She closed her eyes again, but snapped them open in surprise when she felt the bed move. Rolling on to her back, she turned her head to the side and took in the sight of Raphael stretched out beside her. Smiling involuntarily, she suddenly remembered why she had overslept.

April could tell by the turtle's slow, even breathing that he was still asleep, and as she watched him her smile dropped away as a petal from a flower—softly, thoughtfully. She propped herself up on one elbow and studied him, fascinated by the sight of shocking green skin emerging from ripples of ivory bedding.

Her eyes roved smoothly over him, skiing across the rugged peaks of his shoulders and gliding up and over the curve of his shell before finally coasting down the tapered length of his muscled legs. Merely looking at his sprawled masculine form was enough to trigger a cascade of visceral reactions, from the familiar spreading tingle deep in her belly to the corresponding warmth that flooded her cheeks. April was tempted to reach out and touch him—to run a fingertip along the fissured muscles of his arm, the taught smoothness of his skin, just to prove to herself that it really felt as good as she remembered… but she didn't dare. He would undoubtedly wake up, and she hardly ever got the chance to study him so openly—especially in daylight.

Shifting her gaze to his face, which was half-buried in the pillow, she attempted to memorize the way he looked without the familiar slash of crimson over his eyes, knowing it would be replaced immediately when he woke up. He was probably aware that without it, he didn't look nearly as fierce. One side of April's mouth twitched up a little at the corner as she noted his expression—instead of looking relaxed and peaceful, as one might expect, he wore a serious frown.  _Even in his sleep he has trouble letting go_ , she thought in amusement, and this time she had to resist the urge to reach out and smooth his face. Suddenly she felt almost giddy, euphoria rising in her like bubbles in champagne—it felt so good to find him sleeping next to her when she awoke, so intimate and… and  _comfortable_.

Because the truth was that even a short time ago, all of this would have felt strange—the rush of feelings, the casual closeness…or at least the horizontal nature of it. Then there was the wholly different experience of kissing him, or reaching behind him only to encounter textured plates of armor instead of skin…not to mention that tail! But now if she gave those things any thought at all, it was only to marvel at how quickly she had gotten used to them.

This, though… waking up next to him in daylight, watching him sleep… this she was not used to. Always before if he had stayed over, even on his morning off from training, Raph had left her apartment while the city was still cloaked in darkness—only kissing her briefly before taking a shower and heading out. They hadn't yet had the luxury of just waking up and spending a lazy morning together… had never been together during the day at all.

Then suddenly, crushingly, the memory of why that was broke over her, and April's euphoria dispersed like snowflakes in a bitter wind as it all came rushing back.  _They know—everyone knows now._ April squeezed her eyes shut at the memory of Donatello's reaction, and her heart plummeted.

Just then, as if he had sensed her change in mood, Raphael shifted a little—and suddenly his one visible eye was looking right at her.

April half-smiled as she lowered herself back down beside him, and tried to suppress all the virulent, guilty thoughts teeming upward in her brain.

"Good morning," she said softly to him.

"Hey. Morning," he mumbled into his pillow. His eye was already closed again.

April continued to look at him, thinking. It was morning. Daytime. And Raphael was unlikely to go back to the lair until it was dark. Which meant… he was hers for the day. And she resolved then and there that she wouldn't waste it wallowing in guilt and tears. It had become too much of a pattern of late, and it was time to break the cycle. She pushed up closer to Raphael, and kissed his cheek.

"Wha'sat for?" he asked without opening his eye.

"Breakfast," she answered pertly.

"Wha…?" He was nearly asleep again.

"It's thanks in advance for the breakfast you're going to make for me."

He opened his eye again.

"Can't," he mumbled finally as the lid fell shut once more.

"Oh? And just why not?"

"Mmmph, 's a woman's job…"

April jolted upright with an indignant huff, and prepared to clobber him with her pillow. Even as she had begun to grasp it, though, Raphael reacted with startling swiftness for one who had appeared to be on the cusp of sleep. In a flash he had her on her back with her wrist pinned down.

"Drop your weapon," he growled, hovering over her.

She let her fingers uncurl from around the pillow. Damn, he was fast. She may have gotten used to being in bed with a turtle, but apparently she still wasn't used to the ninja part.

"Show off," she accused.

He snorted. "What didya expect? Tryin' a sneak attack on a ninja while he's half asleep… what do you have to say for yourself?"

"Gotcha," answered April in a triumphant way, her eyes dancing.

"Got  _me_?" he questioned, obviously sizing up their respective positions. "I may not be at my sharpest first thing in the morning, but it seems to me like you're completely at my mercy."

"Maybe…" April replied thoughtfully. Then she met his eyes and gave a slow, salacious smile. "But I still got you exactly where I wanted you."

-=-=-=-=-=-


	7. Teacher and Student

Splinter detected Donatello's presence immediately when his son approached the dojo. The distinctive chi of each of his sons was easily discernable to him when he was focusing properly, and he was pleased that it came to him so strongly even while he was in the middle of a kata. He had composed this particular one himself, choosing moves that would help stretch his muscles and keep him limber; and although it was not a difficult kata by his standards, perfecting the movements still took a good deal of focus. The goal of this exercise, however, was not just physical coordination. Splinter was always trying to discipline himself to achieve simultaneous physical and mental precision. If he correctly partitioned his mind, he could perform a flawless kata while still directing a portion of his senses outward, accurately perceiving the approach of friends and foes alike.

Donatello's aura felt steady rather than agitated, so Splinter did not break form but worked through the kata to the end, finishing with a deep, cleansing breath and a bow facing away from the entrance. "You may join me in my quarters in thirty minutes, Donatello," he said without turning around.

"Yes, Master Splinter," the turtle responded, and silently departed.

Half an hour later Splinter was waiting in his room, sitting cross legged on the floor—he expected this discussion to last longer than the last one, and he wanted to be comfortable. When Donatello arrived, Splinter beckoned wordlessly for him to enter. The turtle sat in front of him with his eyes lowered respectfully, and Splinter took a moment to study him before initiating the discussion, noting the relaxed set of his shoulders. He still looked exhausted, yes—but calm.

"So, my son, I presume have you made good use of your time off?"

"Yes.  _Arigatou gozaimasu_ , Sensei," he replied with the proper low bow.

"Again, you are welcome. Now," Splinter continued, wasting no time in picking up the conversation where it had left off two days ago. "Let us go back to our previous discussion. If it is not too much to ask, I would like to hear what happened when you spoke with April."

The turtle didn't react except to bob his head slightly before speaking. "She came to Leatherhead's to apologize, and explained how, and why, things had happened. She… well, it was very difficult to hear, Sensei. I didn't exactly react well." He sighed softly, but the weight of it settled over the room like a lead blanket. "Before she left, she made it clear that she hoped we could be friends, but I couldn't promise anything."

All of this was stated quite simply. Not emotionlessly, Splinter thought, not like he was trying to pretend it hadn't affected him, just that he could now speak of it more objectively. And although the response seemed truthful, it was noticeably bereft of details, which was unusual for Donatello. Splinter was about to question him further, but he hesitated even as the words formed in his mouth and studied his son yet again. He didn't quite know what it was, but something was nagging at the back of his mind, telling him he was on the wrong track. Then it came to him—perhaps the lack of detail in the explanation wasn't due to Donatello holding back, as he would have assumed, but was instead an indication that his son did not feel they were important. If that was the case, it would do little good to have him rehash them—the purpose here was to get at the real issue so Splinter could decide what should be done about it.

After considering for a moment, he decided a better way to do this was to let Donatello direct the flow of conversation—it would prevent a lot of unnecessary guesswork on his part if the turtle was now ready to speak openly. Therefore he chose to start over and change the tone of the conversation entirely.

"Donatello," Splinter said with a sigh, "Let us be open with one another. I am concerned about you, and I wish to try to understand what you are going through, but I do not know the right questions to ask. Therefore it might be best if you tell me what is on your mind, and we can proceed from there."

His son sat unmoving, but there was no shaking of his arms this time. When his eyes, calm and direct, found Splinter's, the father knew his suspicions two days ago had been correct—Donatello had indeed changed. It wasn't anything visible, but it was certainly palpable—like a drastic reduction in humidity after a stretch of muggy summer days.

Donatello regarded him steadily for a moment, keen points materializing in the raw umber of his eyes. When he spoke his voice was both soft and unyielding—steel wrapped in cotton wool. "Master Splinter," he said without a trace of hesitation, "I'd like your permission to move out."

Splinter could only stare, and he wondered how two days of intense meditation could have failed so completely to prepare him for this—it was such a divergence from where their last discussion had been headed that he found himself scrabbling madly for a mental handhold, as if he had veered off a familiar trail only to encounter a drop off. He tried not to let on how startled he was, and reminded himself to breathe slowly and find his way back to where Donatello was. Breath by breath, pawhold by pawhold, he pulled himself up and adjusted slowly to the turn of events.

Even when he had regained his inner composure, he didn't try to speak. Donatello had held his eyes for several seconds before looking down again, just long enough for his father to know he meant what he said, and would respectfully await a response. Splinter dearly would have liked a couple of hours to think this one statement over, but of course that was not an option. After some rapid thinking, he decided he knew what this was about. When the rat finally replied, he did not attempt to address the question imbedded in his son's statement.

"You know I do not approve of running from one's problems," he said sternly.

Donatello's head came up once again, his eyes flicking back a forth slightly as he scanned Splinter's. "Father. If I was trying to run away, I wouldn't be here."

And Splinter understood then with dizzying clarity that Donatello had actually considered doing just that—leaving and not returning. If his son's previous statement had sent him sliding over a precipice, this one left him in a free-fall with limbs flailing at nothing, and he had to actually remind himself to stop floundering, to let go and relax. When he finally managed to do so, he found he was able to pass through the screen of his own shock to sort through the many implications buried in that seemingly simple statement.

True, Donatello had considered not returning—hadn't just thought about it hypothetically, but had weighed it as an actual alternative. That meant he was aware he had a choice, that part of him had been willing to go that route. And among his four sons, Donatello was probably most well-equipped to set out on his own—here in the city, at least. He could have chosen to leave and thereby avoid facing all of the problems that awaited him at home.  _But he did not_ , Splinter reminded himself.  _He came here to talk to me, instead._  He had, in fact, chosen what was probably the more difficult path—to return, to deal with things, to tell his family of a decision that would likely be met with opposition. And even though the old rat's heart was filled with trepidation at where this might lead, he could not help but feel proud of his son.

When Splinter regarded Donatello again, it was with new awareness. He would not underestimate his son again, nor assume he understood what he was going through. Sometimes the hardest thing about being a teacher was remembering one was always yet a student.

"Ah, my son…" Splinter began—he didn't even know quite how to respond, but he decided to simply be open. "You may have been gone for only two days, but your mind is…  _light years_  away from mine."

Donatello stared at him for a moment, then broke into a familiar gentle grin and shook his head, a sparkle of humor showing in his eyes. The aged rat's heart warmed at the sight—Donatello had once again gotten his message.

_Splinter's thoughts were elsewhere when he walked by Donatello's room, but his eyes automatically sought his son as he passed without really registering anything more—his mind was on all the things he hoped to accomplish that afternoon. There was always so much work to be done, and although his sons were required to do chores in addition to their schooling and training, he still allowed them some free time every day. They had to grow up quickly enough as it was._

_After he had gone by, though, his mind belatedly caught up with what his eyes had seen, and he hesitated. Donatello had been on his bed with a book, which was not unusual by any means—but his posture had seemed… off, somehow. Given how busy he was, Splinter was tempted to dismiss the notion and keep on walking, but Donatello's behavior had been a cause for concern of late._

_As far as Splinter could recall, the change in his behavior had begun right around the time he had brought home the latest salvaged science textbook. The book was a rather big leap from the much more basic (and no doubt outdated) science text his sons had been doing lessons from, and Donatello had become instantly obsessed with it. He had in fact been seen with it so often that Michelangelo had begun referring to it as "Sheila" and asking Donatello if he had "gotten past first base yet." During lessons, or at any time, really, all Donatello wanted to do was pore through that book, and only by insisting that one of his brothers needed to complete a lesson from it did Splinter have any hope of getting him to work on his other subjects._

_In the very earliest days of the turtles' education, Donatello's tendency to fixate on one particular subject had frustrated Splinter. He had striven to keep the four turtles together in their lessons, reasoning that things would be much simpler that way. But eventually, through trial and error, he had learned that it was actually more practical to let them go at their own paces. Well… separate paces, at least—he pushed Michelangelo and Raphael beyond the paces they would have set for themselves. Michelangelo was easily distracted and therefore quickly fell behind if left to himself, and Raphael simply detested doing things if he couldn't see the immediate benefits. Splinter motivated them using the only strategy he was familiar with—and both youngsters were quick to grasp the immediate benefits of avoiding their father's punishments._

_Leonardo and Donatello, on the other hand, had progressed rapidly in their studies with little encouragement from him. Leonardo had been an exemplary student from the very beginning—bright and diligent and meticulous. But Donatello, in spite of his obvious intelligence and at times almost feverish thirst for knowledge, had not been a model student. True, he had learned to read much earlier than his siblings, and had proceeded at a much faster rate in his studies completely of his own accord—but he had also been extremely willful and frustratingly inconsistent. For example, he had been totally ambivalent about assignments unless they'd happened to capture his interest for one reason or another, and unlike Leonardo, the threat of a failing grade had not fazed him in the least. When Splinter had made it clear he was expected to complete all assignments or he would be disciplined, Donatello would become angry and argumentative, saying that it was a waste of time, he already knew the answers._

_Splinter had believed him—and not just because he had verified on quite a few occasions that the turtle did indeed know the material. The truth was, there had always been something unfathomable about Donatello, about the way his mind worked. It seemed like an entirely different kind of perception—as if the rest of them were caterpillars that saw only the leaves they clung to, with occasional mind-boggling glimpses of the branches or, rarely, the tree itself; whereas Donatello had developed with wings that enabled him to not only see the entire forest, but understand how it all fit together. And although Splinter had realized that it frustrated Donatello to have to do assignments he found so basic, the father had thought it unwise to make an exception for one son while the others were required to turn in their work. Clever as Donatello was, he was still just a child, and Splinter could not allow the turtle to undermine his authority. So Donatello had submitted and turned in his work, and even though it had been rather obvious that much of it was perfunctory, Splinter let that go by, looking on in puzzled fascination (and not a little pride) as Donatello threw himself into learning about any subject he could get his hands on._

_Now, years later, Donatello was still inconsistent with the work he handed in—but he had long since ceased complaining about having to do it, apparently choosing to put that energy into more productive things. Lately, though, in spite of his initial excitement over the new science book, he seemed increasingly moody and withdrawn, and this had become even more pronounced since the misunderstanding with Michelangelo earlier in the week. Therefore, Splinter retraced his steps to Donatello's room and re-evaluated the scene that met his eyes as he stood in the doorway. The turtle was sitting on his bed, leaning back against the wall with a large book resting on his thighs, but to Splinter he seemed folded in on himself somehow—like even though he was alone in the room, he was determined to shut everyone out._

_The impression of loneliness conveyed by the scene was so strong that it made Splinter's own chest feel hollow, and he was glad he had not simply kept on walking. The rat knocked lightly to announce himself before entering, and Donatello glanced up briefly and mumbled, "Hi Master Splinter."_

_Splinter stood just inside the room, wondering how to reach out to his son without triggering the withdrawal that had become so typical of late. Then he remembered that he had seen the other three turtles in the living area only minutes ago, playing a game that Donatello usually participated in._

" _Donatello, you did not want to play that game with your brothers…" He searched his mind for the name—it had always been a difficult one._

" _Monopoly," supplied Donatello without looking up. "No," he added in answer to Splinter's question._

" _I see. And what are you doing?"_

" _Just… reading."_

_But the book propped against his legs wasn't even open. Splinter moved closer, standing next to the cot that served as the bed. "Ah. Is it a good book?" he asked, trying to engage the youngster._

_Donatello shrugged noncommittally._

_Splinter peered at the cover—as expected, it was the same book his son had been poring through for some time now. "It usually makes it easier to read if you have the book open, my son," he said lightly, hoping to draw Donatello out with the sarcasm his sons seemed so adept with._

" _I was quizzing myself."_

" _And what is the topic?" Splinter asked._

_Donatello turned his head away. "You wouldn't care," he said with a fierceness that belied his otherwise uncaring attitude, and he crossed both arms over his plastron like a barricade to his soul._

_Splinter's eyes softened, though Donatello was not looking at him to see it, and he seated himself opposite his son on the bed before reaching slowly for the book. Though Donatello looked mildly surprised, he did not protest when Splinter took it._

" _What chapter were you on?"_

" _Five," said the turtle expressionlessly._

_Splinter opened the textbook to chapter five, which apparently covered Newton's laws of motion, and flipped to the end where the questions were. He read the first one out loud, and looked up expectantly at Donatello._

_Though slightly confused, the young turtle nevertheless answered, and Splinter could only assume it was correct based on the smoothness of the reply. He read off another question, and then a third, both of which Donatello answered just as glibly._

_Though the turtle's tone of voice and body language indicated that this material was quite basic to him by now, Splinter was becoming intrigued by some of the material— "momentum," "energy," and "force" were concepts he commonly referred to during training. He had only briefly scanned through most of the book, but hearing Donatello's answers to the questions had sparked his own curiosity._

_Without even really intending to speak out loud, Splinter said, "Hm. How do these laws apply to ninjutsu?" Really it was a question to himself, but when he caught sight of Donatello's expression, which just for an instant had shown something besides cool detachment, he decided to let the question stand._

" _That's not a question from the book," Donatello said, stating the obvious._

" _No. It is not," the rat replied, but left it at that. He wanted to see what his son would do._

_The turtle stared blankly at him, as if waiting for the punch line. When Splinter remained silent, the turtle shifted uncomfortably. "You're being serious?"_

" _Yes," Splinter answered simply. He repeated the question, and waited expectantly._

_Donatello blinked, and then his brow furrowed slightly. "You want me to just…tell you how they relate to ninjutsu? Right now?" he asked dubiously._

_Splinter nodded. "Precisely."_

" _Okay, well…," the turtle began slowly, "there are three laws; the first is the law of inertia. Objects at rest will remain at rest, and objects in motion will remain in motion, unless acted upon by another force," he recited from memory. Donatello looked up then, and Splinter nodded his head once to indicate he was with him so far._

_Then the turtle went quiet for a moment, his eyes becoming unfocused as he thought about the question. "So…the first part is easy; if an object is at rest, like a weapon laying on the ground, then it won't move unless some force is applied to it. Like someone kicks it, or picks it up." He looked up again._

_The rat tilted his head slightly in thought. "Yes, that makes sense… but what of a living creature? You and I are both at rest right now, but we may get up whenever we wish."_

" _Yeah…" Donatello said quietly, then his brow pinched together. "I wonder if…maybe it only applies to inanimate objects," he thought out loud. Then he shook his head, dismissing the notion as soon as it was out of his mouth. "No, I must be missing something, that wasn't…" he drifted off as his thoughts took over, starting absently down at his hands as he clenched and unclenched his fists distractedly. After a minute or so, his eyes seemed to actually focus on his fingers, and he opened his hand and studied it, a light suddenly sparking in his eyes._

" _Muscles!" he blurted out. "It's our muscles, that's the outside force! They contract and pull our bones so we can get up—otherwise we'd be stuck in the same spot like any other object." He looked up again, and this time his face was flushed with excitement, his eyes glimmering with an enthusiasm that Splinter had sorely missed seeing._

" _Very good," Splinter replied with a smile, as if he'd known the solution all along._

_Donatello went immediately back to the original question. "For the second part of the first law, things in motion tend to remain in motion," he repeated, apparently puzzling things out as he spoke, "so… if you throw a shuriken, it'll keep going unless it hits something—that's the force needed to stop it." He looked satisfied for a moment, but then his brow crinkled again as he thought it through. "Except… if you miss, it doesn't actually keep going, it falls. It falls on its own…"_

_Splinter observed his son's face, wishing that by studying it he could somehow follow along on the intricate pathways of his mind._

" _No, not on its own—gravity pulls it down! Without forces like gravity, or wind, or something else to stop it, like-"_

" _A body?" Splinter suggested, quirking an eyebrow._

" _Right," affirmed Donatello, rolling his eyes. "Without those, a shuriken really would just keep going, at the same speed even, forever." His voice betrayed his excitement, but the turtle did not pause to bask in the glow of the breakthrough. "So in ninjutsu, you can use inertia to your advantage," he continued, speaking more rapidly now. "If someone runs at you, they're of course using their muscles to oppose gravity and the initial inertia of their sedentary body—but once they're moving they have velocity and momentum, and that makes it difficult for them to_ _stop_ _because objects in motion tend to remain in motion. So you could apply force and physically block them, but if their force is too great you might be knocked down yourself. Or you could simply step aside they'll probably be carried forward before they can stop themselves, giving you an opening."_

_Splinter's mind was beginning to spin just a bit—not because of the concept, which he understood intuitively, but from trying to understand how quickly Donatello assembled these ideas and applied them to a practical situation. But even as he was trying to catch up, Donatello went on._

" _And the bigger your opponent is, or the faster they run, the more force they have!" he added excitedly. "That's Newton's second law—force equals mass times acceleration! Then the third law…"_

_The turtle talked on, though he didn't really seem to be aware of his father anymore. Splinter, on the other hand, was paying a great deal of attention to Donatello. He was taking in his son's eager expression, the glimmer in his eyes, his accelerated breaths, and wondering how he had failed to understand what was wrong._

" _Sensei?" said Donatello hesitantly, breaking into Splinter's thoughts._

_Splinter blinked and cleared his throat. "I am sorry, Donatello, I was just thinking about what you were trying to explain. You do tend to speak rather quickly."_

" _Sorry," the turtle said with some chagrin, then his brow furrowed in concern. "So, did I explain it well enough? It's kind of hard to put this all into words—in the book they refer to these diagrams that you can use to basically map out forces…I think they call it a Free-body Diagram." His eyes panned upward thoughtfully. "The book didn't really go much into how they're done—I'd probably need an actual physics book to learn how. It mentioned vectors, but I don't recall anything like that in the algebra book we have, so it must be more advanced math."_

_Splinter nodded slowly, and idea taking shape in his mind. "These diagrams sound useful; perhaps, on future salvage trips, we should make special effort to find a physics book."_

_Donatello grinned at him eagerly for a moment, but then his eyes glazed over and his smile turned slightly dopey as his mind forged ahead, no doubt imagining all the new things he might find in a physics book._

" _Donatello," Splinter said, drawing his son's attention back to him. "Is there anything more in your book about this Newton?"_

" _I…I'm not sure. Wait, I think so, I think there was… something about planets…" He reached out for the book, and Splinter handed it back to him._

" _Then it sounds like I should return tomorrow afternoon for another discussion," Splinter said seriously._

_Donatello tensed slightly, though it was subtle. "You… really want to?" he asked, keeping his eyes down and lightly fingering the book binding. "I mean, my-… some others don't find this stuff very exciting."_

_As if Splinter didn't know who "some others" could be. "Yes, I find it quite interesting—after all, anyone who understands motion and force as well as this man surely studied martial arts."_

_Donatello shook his head slightly. "I don't remember anything like that, Master Splinter, I think he was just a scientist…," he said, opening the book and skimming through it to confirm this. But the turtle stopped abruptly and looked up, a slow smile creeping across his face as he realized his father was teasing him. Then he closed the book again and met Splinter's eyes. "…on second thought, I think you might be right, Sensei," he concluded, his eyes sparkling. "I can't imagine why no one else has figured that out."_

_Splinter smiled, and jostled his son's shoulder gently._ _"Good. Then while we are searching for a physics book, we will not run out of things to discuss." Donatello's smile widened, and his shining eyes told Splinter his theory had been correct—his gifted young son would never lack interesting topics to learn about…what he lacked was someone to share them with, someone to question him and challenge his understanding—someone to help him stretch the boundaries of his stone-locked world until he was able to move beyond it._

_The very next day during training, Splinter actually made a reference Newton's first law. "Michelangelo! Let Leonardo's own inertia carry him forward—it is far simpler than pushing him backward and accomplishes the same thing. Always use your opponent's momentum to your advantage."_

_The world "inertia" had just come out of Splinter's mouth, fresh in his mind from the examples Donatello had given him, and though the others didn't know what it meant, they evidently figured out from the context what their sensei meant. Splinter would not have given it further thought except that he happened to glance over and catch Donatello's eye. There was a quick, soft smile from his son, a glimmer in his brown eyes—and Splinter's mouth twitched in a smile as well. It was a private communication just between the two of them—brief, rare, and golden—like a beam of sunlight shining through a sewer grate. And though the first time was unintentional, after that Splinter incorporated words from their discussions at every available opportunity._

_Over the years their talks grew more and more infrequent, but the subtle references remained. And even though it was never voiced in words, every time he incorporated scientific vocabulary into casual speech, in Splinter's mind he was telling Donatello, "You are not alone." The turtle's only answer was a quick flick of his eyes, a quiet pride, that boyish grin._

Now his son sat before him again—a genius still, but no longer a child. And Splinter wondered with a pang how many such smiles he would miss out on if Donatello left.

"I know it has been a long time," Splinter said at last, "but would you mind helping your old sensei catch up on what you have learned?"

"It would be my pleasure," the turtle answered with a smile.

Splinter waited patiently, and after a minute his son began speaking. Donatello's thoughts were expressed so concisely that it was obvious he had rehearsed the words in his head.

"When April first came into our lives, she was mostly an item of curiosity for me—a generic human to study up close. It wasn't until I started to get to know her that I realized how special she was. She's… she's  _so_  smart, Sensei, but that wasn't completely it, either. She just  _got_  me in a way no one else really had before—I didn't have to hold back or explain every little technical detail just so she could follow what I was saying. It was like…sharing brainwaves, or something. I never imagined I'd meet anyone who understood me so well or shared so many of the same interests, and I guess I just thought that, if Casey wasn't in the equation, if she were to… if she could ever have feelings for any of us… it would be me." He swallowed, and the pain etched on his face made him appear somehow ancient.

"I didn't ever think it was a real possibility, you know?" he continued softly. "But when I found out she had chosen- …someone else instead, it was like having a rug jerked out from under me; my entire world turned upside down. I just assumed that if I felt such a strong connection with her, surely she had to've felt it, too…but I was wrong. She didn't want me."

Splinter knew then that in spite of his best attempts to relieve Donatello's feelings of isolation, it wasn't until April came into their lives that his son had truly believed he was not alone. April had been the bridge to Donatello's island—and now it must seem to him that it had been an illusion, that he was just as isolated as ever. And Splinter's heart bled for his son. He had no words of wisdom to offer, nothing that would make this any easier on Donatello, who had apparently already gone through the grief and acceptance on his own…but it would be some time yet before the wound was fully healed. There was only one thing left for Splinter to offer him, so he leaned forward, wrapped his arms around his son, and held him tightly in sympathy. The turtle relaxed into the embrace, wordlessly accepting comfort for the loss of something both ineffable and profound.

When finally they eased apart, Donatello's eyes were still dry—maybe he simply didn't have any tears left. But Splinter did, and he made no effort to hide the ones that glistened briefly at the corners of his eyes before sliding into the cover of his fur.

The turtle closed his eyes and took a deep breath before continuing. "The last couple days as I was thinking things over, I realized that as much as I felt for her, I had never asked her to choose me. So why did I ever imagine things might just happen a certain way if I had never taken any action to get them there? That's just not… energy doesn't work that way. You have to put effort into things to get them the way you want."

Splinter opened his mouth to speak then, but Donatello accurately guessed what he was about to say and countered him by adding, "I know that even if I had said something, there's no guarantee things would have turned out differently. But the point is, I never tried."

He looked up at Splinter. "I learned that concept when I was just a kid—that you have to expend energy to get things the way you want them. But I never applied it to my own life until yesterday. And when I did, I suddenly saw all these other options that I had never realized were there—and I decided it's time I stop allowing myself to be carried along by habit, and start figuring out what I really want. Then I have to put some energy into getting there. Otherwise, I'm just wasting my life."

Splinter sat still, silently absorbing this. Now that he knew how Donatello had arrived at the decision to move out, he felt a bit more at ease. But he couldn't help but hope he would yet find some flaw in his son's logic—something he could object to. "And you believe moving out is the answer?" he asked, probing.

"No. Not the answer," Donatello answered seriously. "But I think it's a start. There are too many patterns here for me to get mired in—I have to do something completely different, leave my comfort zone, leave the… demands of my life as it is now if I'm to have any chance of figuring out what I want."

"I am glad you have told me these things, Donatello. But do not forget your responsibilities to your family or your commitment to ninjutsu. You are part of a team, and your brothers rely on you to-,"

"Well maybe it's time they stopped!" Donatello interjected heatedly.

Splinter fixed him with a Look, and immediately the turtle composed himself.

"I'm sorry Sensei," he said quietly, and Splinter gave him a stiff nod to indicate he could continue in spite of the interruption.

Donatello drew a slow breath. "I never said I was planning on quitting the team, or ninjutsu. I know it would make things more difficult if I didn't live here, but I could commute home for training. If millions of New Yorkers can do it every day, I can too. Hopefully I can find someplace suitable not far from here, but if not I'll work it out. And there are lots of things I can do independently as far as training goes."

The rat eased out a breath, not wanting his relief to show.

"And as for keeping this place up, I'll have to teach the others how to do more of it, that's all. They'll learn, if they realize they have to. And it's not like I would never be around—I just wouldn't be living here."

The turtle paused for a moment, and then looked at his father. "Master Splinter, I know you've always said family is the most important thing there is. But you also say that we have to be true to ourselves. If I don't try and figure out what I really want, I'll just end up as this dead weight dragging everyone down. And… maybe I'll figure out that what's best for me is to be here, with you and my brothers. But I have to—no, I  _want_  to explore the alternatives. So… I'll teach the others how to keep the security system running, and fix the hot water heater, and repair every video game controller known to man, and I'll commute for group training sessions, and…," he continued a bit more softly, "I'll accept whatever punishment you choose to give me for my unacceptable behavior. Then I'll start figuring out my life—if you'll give me your blessing to do so."

Splinter had already made up his mind—in spite of his misgivings, he could not refuse any of his sons the opportunity to grow and be happy, no matter how hard it was for a father to let go. And this was obviously not a rash decision on Donatello's part—if he knew his son, the turtle had probably thought of it from every angle many times over. But there was one thing remaining that greatly concerned him. It had not escaped Splinter's notice that Donatello had avoided explicit mention of the actual issue at the center of all of this. He had spoken of April, but he had not once mentioned Raphael or spoken directly of the relationship between the two, and that set warning bells ringing in his head. Donatello may have thought things through, but it was clear to Splinter that there were some things he would still rather avoid.

Although his son was humbly requesting his permission to leave, Splinter knew he did not have as much control as it might seem. Even if he refused, and assuming Donatello acquiesced, holding someone you love too close only made them more desperate to get free. No, he could not refuse… but he could try and influence the situation to the extent he was able.

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and said, "Very well, my son. Although I am not without reservations on the matter, it is clear that you have thought this through, and so I will grant you permission to do as you see fit—including moving out of this lair. Please understand that should you wish it, you are free to come back at any time."

"Thank you, Master," said Donatello respectfully.

Then Splinter leveled a stern look at his son. "As for the rest, I am sure you are aware of the seriousness of your offense—that of attacking your brother." He paused moment to let the full weight of that sink in. "But I will refrain from giving you a punishment. It would not teach you more than you have already learned on your own."

The turtle bowed his head in acceptance. " _Hai_ , Sensei."

"However, I do have one request. Would you grant me a small personal favor?"

The purple-masked turtle looked up, scanning Splinter's eyes quite sharply. Very little escaped Donatello's quick mind—and the shrewd rat had been banking on this.

Splinter had placed Donatello in a delicate position, and he knew it. The turtle had been granted reprieve from a punishment he knew full well he deserved, which technically placed him in Splinter's debt. But he had likely sensed that this "small personal favor" was the trade off, and the rat's language had indicated that he wanted his son to agree to something without hearing what it was. Which would make him justifiably suspicious.

Yet his upbringing, the instilled sense of obligation and honor, made it very difficult for him to refuse such a thing. Or at least, Splinter hoped it did.

After several long moments of scrutiny, the turtle responded. "Of course… I could not refuse."

Again, the deliberate wording, the slight emphasis on 'could not.' He was letting Splinter know that he had not missed the subtle manipulation, but he would go along with it.

Splinter nodded. "I would only ask you not to move out for good until you have reconciled with Raphael," he said. Then he watched his son's face for a reaction, and although Donatello did a good job of schooling it, Splinter did not miss his displeasure.

Donatello shrugged slightly. "You wish for me to apologize, then?" he asked, keeping his face passive.

_Good try,_  thought Splinter. Genius notwithstanding, Donatello had just revealed his eagerness to find a quick-fix, a specific action that might fulfill his father's request.

Splinter himself gave a small shrug this time. "I will leave that up to you, and I will trust your judgment. I only ask that you feel secure, in your own heart, that you and Raphael are on good terms before you go." By leaving the method of fulfillment up to Donatello, and adding that he would trust him to it, he had left his son with no chance for a quick-fix.

Donatello sat thinking his words over, probably searching for a loophole. After a brief moment his gaze flicked upward to meet Splinter's, then lowered again. "I will do as you wish, father."

He was committed, if only through coercion. But it was enough.

"Thank you, Donatello. Now, is there anything more you wish to talk about?"

Donatello shook his head. "No, Master Splinter."

"In that case, I have one last question," he said, and the turtle looked up expectantly. "If I had told you not to move out, would you have obeyed?"

Donatello studied his father's eyes, but he looked reluctant to speak.

"Your answer will not change my decision," Splinter assured him. "I am merely curious."

"I…I'm not sure, exactly," Donatello said, shifting a little. "I hadn't really planned that far."

"But what do you think you would have done?" he pressed.

"I think... please don't take this the wrong way, Master Splinter, but I think I might have gone anyway. Not immediately, not—I wouldn't have just snuck off. But if I still felt it was the right thing to do after further consideration, then… I probably would have come back to you and told you I was going anyway."

Splinter nodded slowly—it was as he had suspected. "Thank you for your honesty," he said, and smiled gently to show he was not angry. "You may go now, if you wish."

The turtle thanked him in kind and rose to leave, but before he exited Splinter remembered one more thing. "Donatello," he said, halting him in his departure. "The decision to leave is yours alone. If you are certain this is what you want, it is your responsibility to tell your brothers." He did not say anything more, but he knew his son would understand. Splinter was sure he was not the only one who would have objections to this plan. If Donatello was determined to go through with it, there would be no shielding by his sensei—and Leonardo was not one to back down easily.

The turtle turned to face him again briefly. "I know, Father. I'll handle it." His expression and posture radiated resolve and quiet confidence, and for just a moment Splinter was given the impression of an immoveable rock formation being battered by the sea. Waves would throw themselves against him, try and force him to retreat, but he would remain fixed—and when the water calmed, he would wade out on his own to discover what truths he could in the boundless waters.

Donatello bowed low and departed, and the image vanished with him—but the feeling it had imparted stayed with Splinter for some time. More than two years ago, when Donatello had been handed the burden of leadership while Leonardo was away, Splinter had known his son was not ready for it. In fact, part of him had known that in spite of Donatello's intelligence and steadiness of character, he would never truly be a leader for the simple reason that he didn't really want to be—it just wasn't in his nature. The father regretted that the responsibility had taken such a toll on his son, but it had been necessary for someone to be in charge. So Donatello had struggled through it.

Splinter knew that he could not change the past, but that didn't stop him from wishing that his son had had this revelation sooner—for whether or not he  _wanted_ to be leader, this Donatello would have been equal to the challenge.

-=-=-=-=-=-


	8. Provocation and Procrastination

Don looked around in what he hoped was a casual way after leaving Splinter's quarters, and immediately spied Mike and Leo in the common area doing something rather… animated that he couldn't make out. He listened for sounds of activity in the dojo or the telltale thrummings of bass emanating from the upper level, but all was quiet. No sign of Raphael.

Don slowly let out a breath, and turned his attention back to the common area where he could hear Mikey laughing.  _Well, no sense in putting it off_ , he thought to himself, but first he stopped by the kitchen for a drink. He was thirsty after his talk with Splinter, and if he knew Leonardo, it would be a while before he had another break. When at last he made his way toward his brothers, it became apparent that they were focused on the dart board hanging on the wall to the side of the couch.

As Don approached, he saw Mike spin in place a dozen or so turns, execute a series of back flips that took him all the way to the couch, launch off the back of it with a handspring, hit the floor rolling, and finally launch a dart at the board.

"Ha, got it! Beat that!" Don heard his younger brother call out to Leonardo.

Leo glanced over at Don as he drew nearer, and Don suspected that his older brother had been watching for him all along.

"Hey guys," Donatello greeted them when he reached the couch.

"Hey," Leonardo answered simply, but the concern in his dark eyes said more than any words could have.

"Don!" greeted Mike with a swift look back over his shell. "Welcome back!"

"Thanks. Soooo… whatcha doing?" asked Donatello, a hint of amusement trickling into his voice.

"We're just, ya know, doing some training," answered Mikey with a grin as he got to his feet.

Don raised his brows, glancing back and forth between his younger and older brothers. "Training?"

"That's right," answered Leonardo with a nod. "Very serious, ultra-advanced training," he said, and although his expression did indeed seem serious, Don thought he saw a sparkle of humor in his eyes.

"Yup. Ninja darts," chimed in Mike. "It was Leo's idea."

_More like Leo's none-too-subtle ploy to stake out the living area until my return_ , Don surmised. It was just the kind of thing Leo would do—entice Mikey to play a game with him under the guise of training so that he would have something to do while keeping watch for Don. He knew pretense of training wasn't intended to fool anyone, though. Michelangelo had once declared that Leonardo always ruined things that were fun by trying to turn them into some sort of training, and it had become something of a joke between them all. Don didn't know if Mikey was aware of it or not, but he didn't think Leo had ever thought of it as ruining anyone's fun. The leader didn't just practice ninjutsu, he lived and breathed it—and for him, finding ways to integrate training with everyday activities only made them  _more_  fun.

Donatello shook his head. "Ninja…? Okay, I'll bite. What's Ninja Darts?"

"Imitate and elaborate," Mike stated, as if that explained everything.

Don gave him a blank stare.

"Okay, dude, it's like this," Michelangelo went on. "One of us starts with just a simple throw, and then the next one has to do pretty much the same thing, but add to it so it's a little bit harder. As long as you keep hitting the board, it becomes more and more difficult each turn. The first one to miss the board loses."

"So, it's kinda like H.O.R.S.E., but with darts?"

Mike cocked his head. "Sorta, I guess. Sure."

"Well then what's the ninja part?" asked Don skeptically.

"It, uh, well Ninja Darts requires superb coordination, excellent aim, and ah, intricate, stealthy movements," Mike answered, casting sidelong look to Leonardo that was clearly a plea for backup.

Don stared at his younger brother a moment, and then folded his arms across his plastron and flicked a glance to Leo. "Is that so."

"Yeah, that's about it," affirmed Leonardo, his mouth twitching slightly at one corner. "Well, you know, it could also be in the dark," he added as an afterthought. "If one of us decides to turn off the light for added difficulty. And stealth, of course."

"Right," nodded Michelangelo. "Never can have enough stealth in Ninja Darts."

Don rolled his eyes—he'd heard enough. "All right, listen. I have to talk with you guys, but why don't you just come find me when you're done 'training', and we can talk then."

Instantly Leo's playful undertone vanished, and when he spoke he was all gravity and concern. "No, it's okay, we can finish this later. What's on your mind?"

"Hey, not so fast O Fearless One!" Mike broke in before Don could respond. "I am simply  _appalled_  that you would suggest quitting in the middle of a training session! Where's all that commitment to ninjutsu you're always going on about?"

"Mikey, if Don wants to talk-,"

"Oh, I get it," interrupted Mikey. "You're trying to get out of this cuz you know I've got you beat!"

"No, that's not-" Leo exhaled in a huff. "I'm merely suggesting we take a break to hear what Don has to say; I'm sure he'd rather not be interrupted later," he finished in his best reasonable tone.

_Right_ , thought Donatello. Never mind that it would probably drive Leo insane if he had to wait any longer than absolutely necessary to hear what Don had to say.

Michelangelo shrugged. "Dunno, sounds like stalling to me. Plus I'm pretty sure official rules of Ninja Darts state that if you refuse to take your turn in a timely manner, it's equivalent to forfeiture, in which case I would automatically win. But hey," he continued without pause, "I'm alright with that, and I want you to know I won't think any less of you if you just decide to tap out—I mean, it's better to forfeit when you face certain defeat anyway, right? Cut your losses? Save face?"

"Mikey…" said Leo warningly.

"It's fine, dude, it's fine. Maybe it's not the most  _honorable_  thing to do, but it's your call. I'm sure you understand, though, that I'm gonna have to get that in writing. Just to be official. I'd let it slide, but it's in the rules an' all. Let me just…" Glancing around quickly, Michelangelo seized a piece of scratch paper and a pen from a nearby end table, and hastily scribbled something on it. Then he handed it to a frowning Leo along with the pen.

Don read over Leo's shoulder when Mike handed him the paper.

_I Leonardo hereby forfeit Ninja Darts owing to Michelangelo's demonstration of supreme skill and the surety of a humiliating defeat should I continue._

_Signed:_

_Witnessed:_

"Donny, you can initial right below as a witness," Mike added. "It'll just take a sec. Then we can all sit down and talk." Aaaaand cue obnoxious smirk.

Leonardo glared up at the turtle in orange. "Cute. Real cute."

Don couldn't help but smile a little—Michelangelo could be a royal pain in the ass, but he sure knew what buttons to push. He'd included all the right phrases: "forfeiture," "certain defeat," "save face"… but it was easy to see from Leonardo's expression that the note was the final straw.

"I'm not  _forfeiting_ … I'm calling a time out. And as for this 'official rule book', you seem to be forgetting who-"

Mike shook his head. "Sorry bro, no time outs—we'd never be able to remember all the stuff we've already done; we'd have to start again from scratch. But I'll tell you what," he said, laying a hand on Leo's shoulder. "I think I know a way to do this. How bout if we listen to Don while you throw? That can be the added complication—hitting the target amidst distraction."

"No," said Leo flatly.

"C'mon! It can be the final round, sudden death! If you hit the target, you win—if you miss, I win. Game over," Mike pleaded.

Leonardo hesitated for a fraction of a second before shaking his head and saying, "No Mikey, that's just rude to Don. We'll-"

"Donny won't mind!" Mike interjected quickly, having picked up on Leo's hesitation.

Leo turned swiftly to Don to see his reaction to that bold statement, and at the same time Mike threw Don a look that clearly begged,  _Help me take this guy down!_

Donatello was torn for a moment, and part of his mind was flashing danger signals, warning him that this was not a good idea. He'd already gone through the best way to do this in his head countless times, and every single version involved keeping his older brother calm, explaining everything from the beginning, and essentially handling him with kid gloves. Just springing it on him would be unfair at best and downright cruel at worst, and it certainly wouldn't help his case.

But whether it was Mikey's pleading look (Donatello would  _never_  tell Mike just how effective those looks were), or Don's lingering feelings of rebellion, or the stirrings of something malignant and largely unacknowledged that had remained curled inside of him since Leonardo's return from training, something made him deviate from his intended course of action. Without missing a beat, Don heard himself say, "Sure, that's fine with me."

His older brother continued to scrutinize him even as Mike grinned at Don and thumped Leo's shell eagerly.

"See? It's all good," Mikey said quickly. "So let's just wrap this up so I can add 'Ultimate Ninja Darts Master' to my other titles."

Leonardo turned back to Mikey and quirked an eyeridge. "Other titles?"

Mike grin widened. "Well sure. There's Battle Nexus Champion, of course," he began, ticking them off on his fingers, "and Turtle Titan…not to mention Supreme Mugwump of All Video Games, Bringer of Mass Pizza Destruction, and Divine Emperor of Asswhooping—He Who Vicariously Layeth down the SMACK!"

Donatello caught Leo's eye. "I could have told you not to take the bait," he said dryly.

Leo sighed impatiently. "Okay, whatever, let's just get this over with."

But in spite of Leonardo's seeming reluctance to proceed, Don knew his older brother wouldn't have given in to Mikey's idea if part of him didn't want to finish the game. Mike's goading had really hit home—if there was something Leo disliked more than losing, it was losing voluntarily.

Leo was still holding a dart, so he took position between the dartboard and the couch and prepared to take his turn. Meanwhile, Michelangelo gave Don a discreet thumbs-up along with a wink, silently urging him to make this count.

Shooting Michelangelo one final glare, Leonardo took his place and went through the same progression of moves Don had seen Mikey do only minutes before—springing off the couch, rolling, and finally halting his momentum so he could throw.

Don took a deep, measured breath as he watched all of this, and before his brother had launched the dart, he said, "Guys, I'm moving out."

Leo's head began whipping around even as the dart left his hand, and he didn't watch as it bounced off the wall wide of the target. Instead he stood, his eyes narrowed and piercing, and stared straight at Don. Donatello was aware of his gaze, but for the moment he focused on his younger brother, who was currently doubled over with uncontrollable laughter.

"Donny, I've said it before, and I'll say it again!" Mike managed breathlessly. "You. Are. A. Genius! Dunno what made you think of it, but that was, like, perfect! Really inspired!" He pounded Donatello quite enthusiastically on the shell as he continued laughing. "All hail Michelangelo, undefeated champion of Ninja Darts!" he crowed, shaking his fists in triumph and imitating the roar of a crowd.

"I'm not kidding, Mikey," Don said.

Still grinning, Michelangelo just watched him, as if waiting for his brother to crack a smile. It wasn't until the younger turtle flicked a glance to Leonardo that his smile began to fade. He looked back to Don. "Dude, c'mon…you can't be serious."

Donatello said nothing, knowing his expression conveyed just how serious he was. He could feel the heat of Leonardo's eyes burning into him, sizzling like twin laser beams, but still he kept his full attention on Mikey.

"Well then I must've heard you wrong," Mike responded, shaking his head in denial. "Cuz it sounded to me like you said you were moving out, and that's just not-,"

"Mike. You heard me correctly—I'm moving out, finding my own place."

At this Mike just stood gaping at him, and if it wasn't completely inappropriate given the circumstances, Don would have laughed to see his loud-mouth little brother unable to summon a single word.

At this point, Leonardo broke in. "Don," he said simply, and Donatello finally turned to look at his older brother. Leo's expression hadn't changed—it was the same keen, penetrating look he always wore when he was commanding everyone's attention before going over a battle plan—a look that tolerated no silliness. Don met his brother's eyes unwaveringly and gave a stiff nod, silently granting the go-ahead for him to speak.

Leo blinked, and for just a split second before his brother could recover Don saw surprise flash across his face. It was so fast Donatello could easily have convinced himself he'd imagined it—if it wasn't for the fact that he'd been watching for it. Being the eldest son, not to mention the second in command, Leonardo wasn't accustomed to being granted permission to speak to his brothers.

But Leo shook it off and continued. "Don," he said forcefully, "You don't have to leave."

"I know," Don replied quickly.

Leonardo moved his arm in a sweeping gesture, as if brushing away Don's response, and tried again. "What I mean is, I know it must seem really hard right now, but this isn't the way to handle it. I'm sure if you just talk to Raph-,"

Don started shaking his head before Leo was even finished speaking. "No, that's not what this is about," he said, keeping his voice calm but firm. "I know this is really sudden, and I can see how it'd look like I'm running away, but I've actually given this a lot of thought. I'm not trying to avoid anything—I'll work things out with Raph. This is just something I have to do." All of which was true…Donatello just conveniently left out the bit where he had reluctantly promised Master Splinter he'd smooth things over with his asshole of a brother.

The leader shook his head again, his jaw clenching at Don's response, eyes hard. "No. No, Donatello, it's not something you  _have_  to do. You have a choice-,"

"Thanks,  _Leonardo_ ," Don broke in, imitating his brother's use of full names, "but I don't need you to remind me of my choices! Allow me to clarify—I  _choose_  to move out!" Oookay, so this was definitely not part of the The Plan… and yet, Don couldn't help but wonder if he'd subconsciously  _wanted_  things to go this way, wanted an excuse to lash out at his brother. Ultimately, though, it didn't matter—he was leaving, and he didn't need his brother's permission.

"That only makes me more certain that it's the WRONG choice," Leo countered with infuriating surety, his voice taking on a harsh edge. "You claim to have thought this through, but you haven't, not really. In case you've forgotten, you're part of a team—your actions affect all of us. You should have discussed it with us instead of just marching in here and announcing something like that!"

Michelangelo, who had been doing an excellent impression of a bewildered statue, suddenly came back to life at this point. "I agree with Leo," he blurted out.

Don and Leo both snapped their heads over to their younger brother.

Michelangelo's face was a bit off-color, and his voice had sounded a somewhat desperate. He must have realized it when he saw his brothers' faces because he immediately attempted to lighten his tone. "I mean, normally I'm the last one to agree with anything Leo says—which is totally for his own good! I wouldn't want his head to, like, over-inflate and explode or something, which it's nearly always in danger of doing—and even though it might make our lives easier in a plethora of ways, there's always the mess to consider, and knowing  _my_  luck I'd be stuck doing clean-up! Which would seriously cut into my video game time if I had to scrape gobs of exploded brain off the walls."

Don and Leo both stared unblinkingly at Mike.

"Uh, yeah…" Mike cleared his throat. "So my point is, I don't usually agree with Leo. But this time, I think he's got a good point. And stuff," he finished lamely.

Leo crossed his arms over his plastron, and looked self-righteously at Don.

Donatello silently absorbed this for a moment, observing both of his brothers coolly. "You think that's what I should have done. Discussed it with you first."

"Yes. That would have been the considerate thing…the responsible thing to do," Leo said, and Mikey nodded his agreement.

Don took a breath and closed his eyes, trying to quell the incredulous anger rising up in him. He opened his eyes and fixed Leonardo. "You mean, like  _you_  did when you took it upon yourself to extend your training by an  _entire year_?! Because I don't remember being asked my opinion on that one!" Blood was pounding in his temples now, but it felt good to say what he felt, to just let it out without pre-analyzing every little thing, and he flung his next words at Leonardo like well-aimed shurikens, sharp and cold.

"But don't worry, big brother—when  _I_ go, I'll be sure to write."

Leonardo's eyes went wide with shock as the words pierced him, driven deep with the impetus of truth, and older turtle took half a step back before catching himself and squaring his stance. At any other time, Don would have instantly regretted the words—but right now he  _wanted_  his brother to hurt, wanted him to taste even a small measure of the pain, the bitterness Don had felt every day between Leo's last letter and his return… since Leonardo had abandoned them, abandoned  _him_ , left him to claw his own way through the rubble of crumbling leadership. Don had tried… but you couldn't replace oak with plywood and expect it to hold.

Leo managed to school his expression rather quickly, but it took him a few moments to find his voice. When at last he did, his grave tone was the only indicator of the emotional impact of Don's words. "Mike, give us a minute," he said quietly, not even bothering to look at the orange-masked turtle.

Mike's eyes were huge, and it seemed to take him a moment to register that he'd just been unceremoniously dismissed. He sputtered a little before responding, "What?! No way! Don came to talk to both of us, you can't-"

"Michelangelo!" Leo said more sharply, eyes still fixed on Don.

"No, Mike stays," said Don firmly. "I wanted to talk to both of you, and he's part of the team, too…or was that just talk?"

"And Raph?" asked Leo with cold astuteness. "Should we wait for him?"

_Touché_ , thought Don, but he didn't bat an eye. "Sure, if you want to."

Then they stared at each other, fighting a battle of wills with their eyes, and things may have stayed deadlocked for quite some time if Mikey hadn't spoken up.

"Nah, we don't have to wait for Raph," he said with attempted lightness. "I know he's, like, amusing to have around sometimes, what with all the sudden mood swings and violent tendencies, keeps things from getting boring and everything, but see, but I actually play a fair 'Raph.' I like to keep in on the DL cuz it's not, like, anything to brag about. Doesn't actually take a great deal of skill to act like a lobotomized mental patient on steroids, but it does up the drama quotient. Side effects are rather unpleasant— foul smell, tendency to replace words with grunting noises, destructive urges…" Mike's voice trailed off when he saw neither of his brother's expressions had softened, and he quickly switched gears.

"All right, look," he continued more slowly, his gaze switching between Don and Leo. "You guys are s'posed to be the rational ones, so I hate to have to do this but… you both need to CHILL OUT. Relax! Find your happy place! Whatever you gotta do, do it, or… or else the MIKE-INATOR will be forced to put the smack down! Yes, that's right—you are in imminent danger of receiving a beat-down of such epic proportions that afterward you'll have to drink your pizza through a STRAW! And I'd hate to see an innocent pizza suffer like that. So…for the pizza's sake, couldn't we just try the old 'sit down and talk' approach?"

In the end, it wasn't what Mike said, but the way he looked that made Don stand down. Mikey was putting on a brave face, trying to defuse the stalemate with his usual tactics, but underneath it all he was clearly stricken—and the rush of remorse at what this was probably doing to his little brother reached him as Leo's reaction hadn't. Michelangelo was right, they were supposed to be the stable ones—and the sight of both of them arguing after the shock of Don's announcement must have completely freaked him out.

Don glanced at Leo, and then back to Mikey. Coming to a quick decision, he simply nodded and sat on the couch.

Mike exhaled, his relief apparent in the relaxing of his shoulders. "Okay, then. How bout I just, um, get us something to drink. Or maybe a snack? I could make something…like nachos! I think those jalapeno peppers are still okay, and we have cheese and salsa, or maybe-"

Leonardo put up his hand in a halting gesture, and Mike fell silent. Then Leo paced slowly over to sit on the couch as well before saying quietly, "I wouldn't mind some tea, if it's not too much trouble."

"Comin' right up," said Mikey, and then looked questioningly in Don's direction.

"Make it coffee for me," Don replied. "We'll wait for you," he added when Mike held his eyes, and the younger turtle shot him a grateful half-smile before nodding seriously and making his way to the kitchen.

Don and Leo remained silent while Michelangelo retrieved drinks, and Don suspected his older brother was doing the same thing he was—using the time to compose himself and think about how to proceed from there. He and Leo rarely butted heads, and the arguments they did have seldom devolved into yelling or verbal sparring. Their heated exchange played back through Don's mind, and now that he was calmer there was something vaguely familiar about it…and his stomach clenched when he realized what it was. It had bourn a disturbing resemblance to a thousand arguments he'd witnessed between Leonardo and  _Raphael_.

Don suddenly felt a bit sick.

_Okay, back up_ , he thought to himself as he breathed through the sudden nausea. There was a logical explanation for this—he prided himself on his ability to remain rational and objective during disagreements, so why had he lashed out at Leo like that? Why had he deviated from his original game plan?

The simple answer was because he'd gotten angry. The real question, the deeper question, was  _why_ had he gotten so angry? Because of Leo's immediate dismissal of his claim? No, that wasn't it…he'd practically provoked his brother in the first place. Leo's reaction, combined with his tone, may have been the proximate causes of his anger, but the ultimate cause was something deeper. This wasn't the sharp, clean anger of a recent transgression, but rather something that had grown fetid as it incubated inside of him, becoming more toxic with each passing day, like bacteria trapped in a wound. An infection.

And obviously, ignoring it wasn't working. But letting it out unchecked wasn't the way to go, either. True, his mind was already made up, and nothing his brother said was going to change it. And in fact, there was a distinct possibility that Leo would back down if he simply told him that Master Splinter had already given his permission… but when Don was honest with himself, it wasn't just grudging consent he wanted from his brother. If possible, he would prefer to have Leonardo's support. Mikey's, too. And he wasn't going to get it by yelling.

But perhaps…perhaps there was a way to make his feelings known to Leo, and use them to turn the situation to his advantage. He thought about that as he waited for Mikey, and by the time his brother arrived he'd formulated a new game plan.

Michelangelo arrived with a beverage for each of them, but no snack. That alone spoke volumes about his current emotional state—he had to be pretty shaken to voluntarily forego junk food. After handing them their mugs, the younger turtle sat in a chair off to the side of the couch and popped the tab on his can of soda.

Don cradled his mug gratefully and sipped at the coffee, waiting for the rush of caffeine that was somehow soothing to him in spite of it being a stimulant. In what seemed like unspoken agreement, they all remained quiet, and when Donatello finally broke the silence his mug was half empty.

"Look guys," he began in a low voice, "I'm sorry about the way I, ah, handled this situation. I'm just…dealing with a lot right now. It was a shock…" he paused, his hand tightening around the coffee cup, but forced himself to say the words. "…to learn that Raph and April are together, and obviously I didn't handle it well." Master Splinter had cued in on his avoidance of the topic, and Don wasn't about to make the same mistake with Leo.

"I can't pretend I'm okay with it," he continued more steadily, "But I'll be all right, you know? And it did force me to step back and really examine how I've been living my life. I've come to the conclusion that I need to make some serious changes. Not because of anyone else," he added hurriedly, "just for me. I know that's not a very satisfying explanation, but you'll just have to trust me—I really need to do this." He swirled the coffee around in his mug. "Thing is, change is always difficult…and it's even harder when there's so much temptation to return to a familiar routine. I just don't think I'll be successful at it if I stay here." He looked up at each of his brothers in turn. "But it's not you guys, or Raphael, that I'm trying to escape from—it's just my old patterns."

Don went quiet then, waiting for a response, and after a moment Leo spoke up, his voice tight. "Where would you go?"

"I intend to find someplace nearby, in the sewers."

"And what about training?" he asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral and eyes fixed down on his mug.

In spite of the situation, Donatello couldn't help but be slightly amused—he should have known that Leo's primary concern would echo Master Splinter's. "I'll still be coming here for group training sessions and everything," he answered, "I just might be doing more of the independent stuff from home, depending how far away I am." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Michelangelo wince slightly at the word "home," and he realized afresh how hard his younger brother had to be taking this.

Don waited for Leo to look up, and caught and held his eyes as he braced himself for what he was about to say. He knew it would be a touchy subject, and even a few short days ago, he probably would have bypassed it altogether. But things were different now.  _He_  was different now. Slowly he let out the breath he'd been holding, and said, "You know I've always done my best to support you. You're  _o-nii-san_ , and you're the leader—but more than that, I trust you. So whenever you asked for my help on something, I gave it. Even if it was hard." He paused, wanting his next statement to hit home. "Even if I thought you were asking the wrong guy."

He didn't know if Mike caught on to what he was talking about or not, but he didn't so much as blink until he was sure that he and Leo were on the same page.

"Did I resent it sometimes?" he went on softly after a moment. " _Hell yes_. But you know what the hardest part was? Being so sure that the only reason I was still doing your job was because you were unable to return…and then learning I was wrong."

He could have said more. A lot more. An angry jumble of accusations were clattering around in his mouth, like Scrabble tiles trying to fight their way out of a bag, and it was all he could do to keep them from tumbling out.  _I trusted you! You stuck me with a responsibility I didn't want for a YEAR longer than you said, without so much as an explanation or even an apology! I thought you were fucking DEAD!_

But he didn't let them out—at least not verbally. With Leo, saying less was saying more, so instead Don focused all of the things he wanted to say behind his eyes, letting them coagulate there before channeling them into the force of his gaze. And as he stared at his brother, he concentrated on a single message:

_You_ _owe_ _me._

"This is a personal decision," Don continued evenly. "And I could really use your support."

It was a two-pronged strategy. Not only did Leo owe him, but Donatello knew his brother had been trying to make a distinction between matters of training, where he had some authority as leader, and their personal lives, where he was just their brother. Leonardo had apparently come to the conclusion that he couldn't continue trying to control every aspect of their lives, and though it was something he frequently struggled with, their family dynamic had improved noticeably as a result. It was also why Raphael been able to keep his little secret for so long. As long as Raph had shown up for training sessions and hadn't done anything to jeopardize their effectiveness as a team, Leonardo had refrained from harassing him about what he was doing in his free time away from the lair.

In a situation like theirs, where ninjutsu was such a large part of so many facets of their lives, Don knew the separation between training and personal lives was often blurry. It was for this reason that he had decided not to drop out of training—and he  _had_  considered it. But this way, he could argue that since he intended to continue training, the subject of his move was technically "off limits."

Leo's brow furrowed a little, and his eyes flicked back and forth as he studied Don's face, but aside from that he remained absolutely still, giving no indication of the battle that was undoubtedly taking place within him. Don waited patiently, and finally Leo swallowed and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and then released it, visibly relaxing his muscles before opening his eyes again.

"Okay," Leo croaked, and then cleared his throat. "What can I do to help?" The words were slightly strained, like it was painful for him to say them, but Don knew they were sincere.

He allowed his intense expression to relax and nodded slightly in acknowledgment of Leo's decision, but he didn't answer just yet. Instead he sat back slightly, and shifted to look at Michelangelo, who had been quiet throughout their exchange. Whether or not Mikey had fully understood what had passed between them, he had obviously recognized it as a private matter.

"How about you, Mikey?" Don asked. "I could really use your help, too."

Mike glanced up at him, but looked down when Klunk brushed against his legs. He let his hand trail over the cat's body as Klunk made another pass, and then lifted him automatically onto his lap. "What does it matter?" answered Mikey dismally as the cat settled himself. "You've already made up your mind, right? You're going, with or without my help."

Don nodded, doing some rapid thinking. He'd anticipated that Mike would be upset, of course—after all, Mike had nearly freaked out when he'd misunderstood and thought Don was leaving for longer than two days. But he wasn't going to give any meaningless reassurances just so Mikey would feel better. He just had to hope that if he treated his brother like an adult, Michelangelo would act like one.

"That's true," Don affirmed. "I'm going either way. But having your support  _would_  make a big difference. It's going to take a lot of work to get to the point of actually moving out—I have to find a place first, which could take a while in and of itself, and then I have to make the whole thing livable. That means moving equipment back and forth, lots of salvage trips, and even more manual labor. And even though doing all of that by myself would mean I'd ultimately be living here longer, it'd sure be more fun if you were helping me. If both of you were helping me," he added, including Leo with a gesture. "Not to mention getting you guys up to speed on maintaining the security system and everything here."

Mike kept his eyes down and stroked Klunk absently. "And then what?" he asked quietly.

"Then what… what?" queried Don, slightly puzzled.

His brother looked up. "So I help you get stuff ready, and maybe we'll have some fun together…which'll just make it that much more of a suckfest when you're gone."

_Ah, so that's the problem._  "Maybe so," Don answered slowly. "But you've gotta think big picture here—you, being my brother, and having contributed to the whole effort, would naturally be granted visitation privileges." He gave this a moment to sink in before going on. "Think about it, bro. We can still hang out all the time—but this way you'll be able to get away from the lair sometimes. We can turn the surround sound on as loud as we want for video games, won't have to worry about cursing too loudly, and no one'll be monitoring our pizza intake." Don used "we" for effect, but of course all of the advantages he'd just listed were much higher on Mikey's list than Don's.

"I… guess I hadn't thought of that part," Mike said thoughtfully. His face grew just a bit brighter then, and Don knew he had him. Slowly the orange banded turtle began to smile, and in no time flat his entire demeanor went from Eeyore to Tigger—he looked ready to bounce right up out of the chair. The change in his energy must have been transmitted to Klunk, because the seemingly contented kitty lashed his tail a few times and then sprang off of Mike's lap to depart in a disgruntled fashion.

Don watched the cat leave, and smiled at Mikey. "We have a deal, then?"

"Well… can I come over whenever I want?"

"Um, well…" Don fumbled. "How bout if we make it a… phone-ahead kinda thing? I'd need to, uh, know in advance if you were coming—because of the security system and everything," he added hurriedly.

Mikey eyed him suspiciously. "Okaaaay," he said, "but if I call ahead and it sounds like you're having a kegger without me, I'll be forced to move in with you so it never happens again."

Don laughed. "Duly noted. And I promise you, Mikey—if I ever decide to have a kegger, you'll be the first one to know."

Mike grinned. "All right, then you have a deal."

"Good. Thanks, you guys, that really…" He faltered, unexpectedly touched, as well as relieved, to know his brothers were behind him. Then looked up and blew out a slow breath. "Just… thank you," he said sincerely.

"No prob," Michelangelo replied casually, brushing Don's words away like crumbs from a counter.

Leonardo's response was a bow—slow, respectful, and executed with such fluid ease that to an outsider it would have appeared automatic. But Don knew the opposite was true. Every minute detail, from the precise set of Leo's shoulders to the length of time he kept his eyes downcast, was intended to acknowledge the depth of gratitude behind Donatello's words—and to convey an equivalent level of sincerity and respect in his own offer to help.

Don gave a brief twitch of a smile in return, but that was all he could manage for the moment. His mind had already moved ahead to the next subject.

"Right. Then… I just have one more thing," he continued somewhat hesitantly. "Have either of you, um, by any chance talked to Casey lately?"

Mike and Leo exchanged looks, and then they both shook their heads, their faces mirroring the same helplessness Don felt. But it was as he'd suspected. Apparently all of them had been operating under the assumption that Raph and Casey had been hanging out for the last month, and Don's stomach twisted with sympathy for their friend. The poor bastard had probably felt even worse than Don—and on top of that, he'd been completely isolated all this time.

"Mikey," Don said, "Do you think you could…try giving him a call?" He didn't mention why he didn't try himself, but he supposed it was rather obvious. What would he say, anyway? 'Hey Casey, I was secretly crushing on your girlfriend for years, and I'm pretty sure I was in love with her. So now that we've both had our hearts torn out, what say we play racquetball sometime?'

But Mikey shoot his head sadly. "Already tried, dude. Yesterday. The number's out of service. I tried his work number, too-,"

A swift glare from Leo showed how he felt about that, but he didn't interrupt.

"But they said he left a few weeks ago, didn't leave any contact info."

Don nodded thoughtfully. "Thanks, bro. I'll see if I can track him down," he said, but he knew that might be a tall order. It had been at least three weeks, and knowing Casey, that meant he could be anywhere. A motorcycle, no cell phone, and probably no permanent address since moving out of April's place. But he would give it a shot. He was nothing if not resourceful.

"Okay, then," Don said. "That's all I had, I guess. Did you guys, um, have anything else?"

Mike cleared his throat. "Yeah Donny, there's, uh, just the small matter of…what's going to happen with your bedroom. Cuz like, I was thinking what a great game room it'd make."

Don rolled his eyes. "I guess you'll just have to take that up with Master Splinter once I'm gone—it's his call."

Leonardo perked up a little at that. "Maybe he'll turn it into a private meditation room," he breathed in a reverent tone, as if it would be just too good to be true.

"Waste of a perfectly good space," Mike grumbled slightly under his breath.

Don gave an incredulous laugh. "Jeez, five minutes ago you guys seemed just crushed I was leaving, and now you can't push me out the door fast enough! Next thing I know, I'll come home from a training run one day to find my stuff piled outside the lair and a note that says 'Take the trash with you when you go.'"

"No way, Donny," refuted Mikey indignantly. "That would be just plain rude! 'Please take the trash with you when you go' is what I'd write."

"Right, that's better," scoffed Don. Then he rose and stretched, stifling a yawn. "Well then, since we've got that straightened out, I think I'll take my leave."

They exchanged brief goodbyes, and Don headed immediately towards his room. He was exhausted, and he grew even more tired at the thought of what remained ahead of him. In spite of the relief he'd felt at knowing he'd gained the support of Splinter, Leo, and Mike, he still had another major hurdle in front of him.

Part of him just wanted to get it over with—talk things out with Raph… or fight them out, if that's what it came down to. But the pragmatic side of him knew it wasn't the right time… in fact, upon reflection he was quite certain that he should at least wait until he could manage to  _look_  at his brother without feeling the urge to vomit. And anyway, there was no rush. He'd promised Master Splinter he would work things out before he took off  _for good_ … and that was likely to take a while.

He'd deal with Raphael later.

-=-=-=-=-


	9. Lessons from the Jungle

Leo didn't speak much of his time spent away on training.

It wasn't that he'd made a decision not to, or even that he was reluctant to share. With the exception of the actual specifics of the Five Fold Path, which was supposed to remain between him and Splinter, Leo was perfectly willing to talk about his experiences if anyone asked. It was more that it just felt too  _big_  sometimes to put into words, like the time he'd attempted to describe New York City to someone who lived in a dwelling of wood and thatch. And yet, somehow the smallest details were the ones he recalled the most strongly, the ones that came back to him in his dreams. Sun glinting off of ice shards that bobbed in flinty northern seas; smells of fish and brine and blood intermingling as his rage cooled on the deck of a ship; the first touch of water in a mouth so dry and coated with dust, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to swallow; a rousing chorus of howler monkeys sounding in the pre-dawn stillness of the jungle. Infinite details with countless lessons imbedded in them, many of which he hadn't even grasped until after he'd returned to New York.

While living in the gallery forests of Costa Rica, for example, Leo had quickly learned the difference between crashing brazenly through the tropical undergrowth, and easing through the supple greenery—use too much force, and not only would you give away your position, but the plants were liable to snap back on you.

He'd realized too late, while drifting in and out of drugged sleep during his brief period of captivity in the hands of the Stone Generals, that the same was true of brothers.

The Ancient One had been right—maybe he hadn't consciously thought himself to be better than his brothers, but he'd sure acted like it. His leadership had always consisted mainly of pushing and prodding his siblings, trying to force them to bend to his will. Now he knew that  _he_  was the one who was supposed to do the bending. The jungle had taught him that. And he'd recognized deep down that if he didn't make some changes, didn't learn from his errors, then all of his "training" had been for nothing.

So after the whole Winters episode was over, Leo had stopped trying to act like he'd never been gone, stopped trying to squeeze back into a niche that had in fact begun to close the moment he'd left, and had instead taken a step back, observing carefully before attempting to re-integrate himself into a family dynamic both strange and achingly familiar as it morphed around him.

These new brothers, who had overcome challenges, gotten jobs… learned to live without him, didn't want someone telling them what to do in every aspect of their lives. And more to the point, they now knew they didn't  _need_  it. So when Leonardo had begun experimentally restricting his authority to training, his brothers had responded positively—that is, once he'd reassured them that he wasn't feeling in the least bit ill. And slowly, he'd begun to feel a severing of that which had always seemed to him inseparable. As before, he was a brother and a leader—but no longer both at all times.

That simple, unspoken acknowledgment of his brothers' independence and capability had made his life easier in ways he felt stupid for not having predicted. They'd begun to listen better during training, working harder and staying focused longer without any pressure from him. Had he been more open-minded, less convinced of his own superiority, he might have figured that out long ago.

But changing 16 years of habit hadn't come easily— _still_  didn't come easily, in fact. Leonardo had known exactly what Donatello meant when he'd talked about being sucked back into his old ways. Time and time again he'd found himself slipping back without even realizing it, and he constantly struggled against his own overbearing tendencies, knowing it was for the good of the entire family—himself included. He had to treat his brothers like equals, trust them to manage their own personal lives, handle their own problems… or at least wait until they asked for his help. But often times it was all he could do to prevent himself from jumping right in and rearranging things, like his brothers were chess pieces and only he could see the board.

This was one of those times.

He had been observing Raphael and Donatello closely, reminding himself that they had to be given a chance to work things out on their own, even though it was clear it would take some time. But the day after Don's announcement that he was moving out, Leo had been given a preview of just how difficult things were going to be.

" _Up for a little sparring?" Leo asked his brother hopefully as Raphael entered the dojo. He felt pretty good about the kata he'd been working on, and was eager to burn off some excess energy. "I mean, if you didn't have any specific plans."_

_Raphael glanced at the heavy punching bag, revealing what he'd been intending to do, and Leo rather expected him to decline. But to his surprise, Raph turned back to him with an impartial shrug._

" _Sure, sounds good," he said agreeably. "Ain't gonna turn down a chance to kick your shell," he added, one side of his mouth curling up._

_Leo quirked an eye ridge. Could it be that Raph was in a good mood? It was a little surprising given how tense and moody he'd been during training that morning, their first group session as a full team since Donatello had taken leave. Master Splinter had wisely paired Don with Mikey and Raph with Leo, so Donatello and Raphael had barely interacted. Maybe this lighter mood was a sign that things had gone okay with Donny for the rest of the day. Leo had effectively fought back the urge to hover over both of his brothers, so he really had no idea how things had played out between them. Then again, maybe his brother's mood was simply a consequence of how much time he'd spent with April the last couple of days. Regardless, Raphael in good spirits was something to be savored._

" _You can try, little brother, but you will not be successful," Leo responded tauntingly, a competitive smile tugging the corners of his mouth._

_Raph grinned back and did a few warm-ups to loosen his muscles before taking up a fighting stance. Then the two faced off, bowed, and began circling, these introductory moves together making up the only choreographed part of the violent performance to come. Raphael looked relaxed and focused, and Leo prepared himself for a good match. In such a state, his brother was a particularly formidable opponent; when he was agitated or angry, Raphael's moves always became more predictable and therefore easier to counter._

_Leonardo made the first move this time, hoping to draw Raphael into a hasty counterattack, but his brother merely sidestepped coolly._

" _So, where is everyone?" asked the red-masked turtle as casually as if they were simply chatting over breakfast._

" _Splinter's in his quarters, and Don and Mike are cruising for real estate," Leo answered, feinting with a jab before aiming a kick at Raph's thigh._

_Raph dodged nimbly and gave a throaty chuckle. "That one a' Mikey's crackpot 'get rich quick' schemes or somethin'?"_

_Leo furrowed his brow in confusion, but he kept his guard up. "No, for Don's new place."_

_His brother's eyes went wide for a moment, and Leonardo connected the dots too late-_

_Raphael didn't know._

_And so help him, even that appalling revelation wasn't enough to overcome a lifetime of training prompting him to take advantage of any break in his opponent's concentration, no matter how small. He reacted instinctively, sweeping out with his leg, and Raph went down hard on his shell._

_Leo moved quickly to help his brother up, feeling equally strong surges of disgust and anger—disgust with himself for reacting without thinking, and anger at Donatello for leaving Raph to find out this way. There was simply no excuse for either._

_He extended his hand to his brother. "God, I'm sorry Raph, I just reacted without-"_

_Raphael's warning gaze halted his apology, and Leo slowly retracted his arm. Instead he stepped back as Raph stood up on his own, waiting tensely to see what he would do. Leo focused and opened himself to the energy around his brother, hoping for a clue, but all he felt was a seething mass too complex to decipher._

_Once Raphael had risen he slowly returned to ready position, but when he looked up at Leo, the taunting smile formerly on his face had reverted to a grim line._

" _Hey, we can, ah, finish this later if you want," Leo said hesitantly. "I'm sure Don-"_

" _I don't give a_ _fuck_ _what Don does," Raph returned fiercely, his eyes narrowed and cutting. "Let's just do this."_

 _Leo stared at his brother, and time seemed to slow until it was moving only thickly, accumulating around him in viscous folds like slow-poured wax as he processed the situation. The leader in him, the_ _ninja_ _in him, wanted to bring the session to a halt right then and there, before anything got out of hand. He should insist Raphael calm down before they continue sparring, remind him that anger made him careless and sloppy. But before he could speak, his eyes were drawn to the now-faded bruising still visible on his brother's face, the sickly green yellow of the edges pooling out from under his mask and spreading across his cheek like a forgotten spill. The dark epicenter was mostly hidden under the red fabric, as if the bruise itself felt the same way Raph did—that any outward indication of pain was blasphemy._

_More than anything, he wished he could spare his brothers some pain…but Raphael would never ask for his help. So Leo did the only thing he could think to do under the circumstances—he gave Raphael someone to fight. And he didn't pull his punches._

After that incident, meddling or not, Leonardo had been ready to charge in and make his own solution. He  _had_  confronted Don, still furious but determined to hear his brother out. Maybe there was a valid reason for the delay in making his plans known to Raph. When he'd asked, though, Donatello had merely shrugged it off, saying he simply hadn't yet found a good time. Leonardo's temper had flared at this casual and completely apathetic response, and he'd stated in no uncertain terms exactly what he thought of that excuse, but his brother had remained unfazed. Don hadn't gotten defensive, or given any further explanation, or even indicated he felt bad in any way. He'd just carried on with what he had been doing when Leo found him, and at the end of the angry speech he'd looked up calmly and said, "Are you done?"

Leo had almost lost it then, his hand actually twitching at his side as he visualized himself grabbing Donatello by the shoulders and shaking him until he got through to him… and truthfully, only one thing stopped him. If Donatello truly didn't care, no amount of lecturing or punishment would make him. Strategically speaking, it would be a waste of energy and resources to continue in a direction that was already bound to fail. With supreme effort, Leo had regained enough composure to stand down, but he hadn't trusted himself to say another word to his brother; he'd just turned and walked away.

Thus had begun a pattern that became a familiar one to Leonardo in the coming days—callous indifference from Don, somehow more cruel than outright hostility or simply ignoring Raph would have been—and avoidance and redirected anger from Raphael, causing him to lash out at those who actually wanted to help him. It was like living with two high-strung dogs that kept their eyes averted to avoid a confrontation. If they ever looked directly at one another, there was bound to be an explosion.

Leo waited anxiously for the blow up, sure that it would occur any day, and that when it was over things would begin to turn around. But two days passed, then three, and still there was no change. It wasn't altogether surprising that Don didn't try to force the issue—there was really no motivation for him to do so, and he disliked confrontations on the whole. But  _Raph_  being so passive was unusual to say the least. From his behavior, it appeared that he wanted nothing to do with Don, or the family in general, even curtly rejecting Mike's invitations to join him in watching TV or playing games on the rare occasions Raph ventured out of his room.

It made Leo seethe internally to see it, especially when Mikey tried so valiantly to cover up his hurt and disappointment, but he knew his brother well enough to hazard a guess as to what was going on. Raphael wasn't one to take pleasure in hurting his family members, and when he did so, it was usually an unintentional side effect of how he dealt with his own emotions. If Leo knew Raph, he was probably blaming himself for this whole thing, which would probably explain his reluctance to press the issue before Don was ready. So what did Raph do when the brother he most needed to talk to acted as if his presence was no more noteworthy than finding a cockroach in a dumpster? He pushed everyone else away, unconsciously trying to give the impression that he wanted it that way, that he didn't need anyone. But Raphael had never been good at hiding his emotions—not from Leo, anyway. One had only to look at the inverse of his actions, like viewing photographs in the negative.

Donatello was a different story altogether. His face wasn't an open book to read, like Michelangelo's, nor were his actions always an accurate indicator of how he was feeling. Don guarded his emotions, revealing only what he wanted others to see—he and Leo were alike in this regard. And apparently, right now Don wanted everyone to see that he was perfectly fine. He trained, he worked on projects, he joked with Mikey, and he talked openly with Leo while going over the capabilities of the security system with him. Only his continuing diffidence towards Raphael revealed that things weren't as okay as he wanted everyone to think.

Not having any better clues, Leo assumed Donatello was still angry, that he was determined to punish Raphael. It wasn't until he had the opportunity to observe him unawares that he realized how grossly he'd misjudged the situation, and just how well his brother's dispassionate façade had fooled him.

After leaving his room one day, Leo paused on the upper level and watched casually as Donny fiddled with some project in his lab alcove below. Though Leo wasn't trying to be secretive about it, his brother was obviously too absorbed in the work to notice him. It was then that Don's guise of detachment slipped. One moment he was stripping some wires, and the next he'd gone still, his expression of focus turning somehow liquid. Then there was a tightening around his mouth, an etching of the brow, and his eyes squeezed shut as a wave of emotion washed through him. Leo's heart twisted in instinctive recognition of the look—it was an expression of profound, undiminished pain, the kind that snuck up from behind to tap you on the shoulder when you least expected it, making it seem somehow fresh no matter how much time had passed. After a moment Don inhaled visibly, silently, and re-opened his eyes. Then he regained his composure and went back to work, his face a picture of concentration once again.

Leo moved away before Donatello became aware of his presence, though he felt guilty for having witnessed something Donatello obviously wished to hide. But that single revealing moment changed Leonardo's entire perception of the situation. After that the bulk of the anger he'd felt towards both of his stubborn brothers, the blame he had cast on each of them in turn, shifted more towards pity. His brothers were hurting, and though that didn't excuse their actions, it did make Leo more inclined to be patient with them. There were no off-switches for emotions; sometimes the only thing to do was let them run their course.

Training, however, was an entirely different matter. Although Splinter always lead the group exercises at the lair, Leo was in charge of their frequent workouts topside, and he made it clear to ALL of his brothers from the very beginning that he expected them to be able to put aside any personal problems and function as a team. He also felt no qualms about using his authority during those times to "encourage" Raph and Don to work together. His brothers both managed attitudes of cool professionalism during these workouts, but as soon as they got back to the lair they would split up faster than a celebrity couple, and Leo could do little but hope that things would improve as time went on.

And sometimes he could almost convince himself that they  _were_  getting better—but these surges in optimism were always short-lived.

One morning Leo entered the kitchen to make some tea and found Raphael already hunched over a bowl of cereal at the table. The younger turtle was extremely tense, his eyes darting to the entryway between each spoonful, looking for all the world like a wild animal ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. He acknowledged Leo's greeting with a grunt, but he didn't relax.

A few minutes later Don entered the kitchen, probably drawn by the sound of the gurgling coffee pot, and muttered a general 'good morning' as he poured himself a cup.

"Morning," Leo returned to him, but Raph said nothing and kept his eyes down, apparently intent on finishing his breakfast as quickly as possible.

Don added milk to his mug, stirred, and set the spoon next to the sink. Then he turned and said, "You having any?"

It evidently took Raph a minute to realize Don was addressing him—Leo didn't often drink coffee, and this morning it was obvious he was preparing tea. The red-masked turtle glanced up, startled, and Leo could practically hear Raph's heart hammering even from where he stood next to the stove.

Raph cleared his throat. "Uh, sure," he said warily, as if expecting a trap, but Don just plucked another clean mug from the dish rack and poured some more coffee. Then he walked to the table carrying both cups and set one down in front of Raphael. Leo held his breath, silently willing Don to pull back the other chair and sit down.

But Donatello just continued on past the table, exiting the kitchen and heading in the general direction of his lab without so much as another word.

Raph kept his eyes fixed down on his bowl, though his spoon didn't touch the cereal again. Leo was careful not to make it obvious that he was paying close attention, and when his kettle started to sing a few seconds later, he poured water over his tea and went to stand at the table across from Raph.

"Mind if I sit down?" he asked.

Raph looked up, his eyes hard. "Do what you want," he said, pushing his unfinished cereal away. Then he rose from the table and stalked out.

Leo just stood there for a minute after he left, feeling helpless and completely frustrated because of it. Don hadn't really done anything he could call him out on, nor could he force Raph to open up to him if his brother was determined to keep everyone at a distance. Then Leo sighed and his frustration trickled away, leaving only leaden fatigue in its place. He sat down heavily in the chair, unable to summon even a spark of anger at Raphael for not cleaning up after himself, and stared at the abandoned mug of coffee across from him. Slowly he drank his tea, slipping into an almost meditative state. By the time he stood up to gather the dishes, the untouched coffee was stone cold, but Leo had reached a decision. It was time to talk to Master Splinter.

He hadn't thought it necessary before now—as always, Leo was hyper-aware of his sensei's actions, often using them as a compass for his own behavior. Thus far, Splinter had been essentially ignoring the situation, and Leo knew his master too well to think that it was because he was oblivious to what was going on. No…Splinter had to have his reasons, and although knowing this had initially made Leonardo more confident that he was doing the right thing, he was beginning to second guess himself. More than a week had gone by with no change...what if Master Splinter was waiting for  _him_ to do something? Or even if that wasn't the case, maybe there was a point at which even his sensei would agree it was time for someone else to step in. Leo didn't know for sure what his sensei was thinking, but there was only one way to find out.

Early in the afternoon of the same day, Leo made his way to Splinter's quarters with the tea tray.

"Leonardo," Splinter began, smiling pleasantly and making a slight gesture when he saw his son. " _Genki na_ , please sit down." Then his whiskers quivered slightly as he caught the scent of the other item on the tray. "And I see you remembered the cookies this time."

Leo smiled. " _Oai deki te ureshii desu_ ," he responded politely, and knelt on the other side of the low table, placing the tray with the steaming teapot and the box of butter cookies between them. Reverting back to English, Leo said, "And I feared you would turn me away if I forgot them again."

"Ah, my student—you always were a fast learner," Splinter said, his eyes twinkling, and Leo smiled and proceeded to pour tea for both of them.

He handed his father a cup with a polite bow, and Splinter held it under his nose for a moment, his whiskers and ears flattening and his eyes closing blissfully as he inhaled the scented steam. Then he opened his eyes and held the tea up in both hands, a cue for Leonardo to do the same with his own cup.

" _Kanpai_ ," the old rat said with a nod, and with that familiar toast, they each took their first sip.

Then Leonardo set his cup down and shifted to a more relaxed position, though Splinter remained kneeling. The turtle figured that when he learned the secret to kneeling for hours without losing all circulation to his legs, he would truly be a Master.

They proceeded to talk comfortably and openly then, falling into a familiar rhythm and pattern, not really discussing anything of importance, just letting the conversation flow where it would. Leo had always treasured such times with his father. They left him feeling somehow relaxed, invigorated, and enlightened all at the same time, and often the smallest of observations from his sensei would stay with him for days afterward. But after his return from training, Leonardo had felt something change in their relationship, like the shifting of two tectonic plates. Before, their talks had usually consisted more of Splinter talking, and Leo mostly just listening. It wasn't that he was reluctant to speak, but rather that he was content—no, eager—to absorb as much as he could, hoping that he would someday possess even a fraction of the wisdom of his teacher.

Now, there was more equality in their relative participation, as well as a closeness and understanding that hadn't been there before, or at least hadn't been as pronounced. Splinter asked just as many questions of Leo as the turtle did of him, and Splinter knew more than anyone else about all Leo had experienced during his travels. The line between teacher and student became almost blurry then, and though they spent hours in conversation, it always seemed to Leo that it was over too soon.

This meeting was no exception. They spoke as comfortably as they always did, with Leo content too wait for an opportunity to bring up the subject of his brothers; but before he knew it, without even attempting to steer the conversation, the opening appeared right in front of him. It was like looking down and seeing the perfect, noiseless spot to place your foot amongst brittle twigs and crumbled leaves on the path—you just  _had_  to step there. And when he met Splinter's eyes, Leo realized his father knew it, too—had in fact known it all along.

Leo looked down, furrowing his brow thoughtfully as he chose his words. "Master Splinter," he began after a moment, "I can't help but notice that Donatello and Raphael have been… struggling lately. It doesn't seem to be getting any better for either of them, and I am concerned." Smooth, direct, and purposely understated, Leo did not need to verbalize the questions that dominated his thoughts. He knew they would be understood implicitly by his father.

The aged rat nodded slowly in understanding. "I share your concern, my son. But I trust that your brothers will work things out on their own."

Splinter didn't offer any further information, nor did he make significant eye contact as he spoke, or even offer a comforting gesture. To anyone else, his comment probably wouldn't have held any more meaning than that which was literally intended, but in fact his sensei was applying the same rhetoric Leo had used. The most important part of the message remained unspoken. Without giving a directive, he was telling Leo what he wished him to do—and that was all the turtle needed to hear.

Leonardo bowed his head in deference, and when Splinter lifted the teapot, he proffered his empty cup. Then they continued on as if the brief exchange had been of little consequence, rather than the hub around which the entire meeting turned.

The turtle felt quite a bit more secure after that, knowing that his instincts had been correct and he was acting in accordance with his Master's wishes. Unfortunately, even that knowledge didn't make it any easier to watch as the turbulence between his two brothers escalated, creating a whirlpool that sucked everyone into its vortex. No one could remain unaffected in a family as tightly knit as theirs—Leo knew this. But with so much of his focus on Raphael and Donatello, he failed to realize that Michelangelo was struggling to keep his head above water.

One night, Leo overheard from the kitchen as Raphael coldly rebuffed Mike yet again. When he peered around the corner, it was to see Mike standing there, shoulders slumped, as he watched Raph leave. Leo approached from behind him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Try not to take it personally, Mikey," he said gently. "You know how he is. Something tells me it's not you he's angry with."

"Yeah, I know," Mike said, his eyes flicking briefly in Leo's direction. He shook his head. "I just…I  _hate_  this, you know?" The frustration, the helplessness in his voice made the words sound torn and ragged.

"Me, too," Leo answered with a sigh, tightening his hand briefly on Michelangelo's shoulder before letting it drop.

"Coulda fooled me," Mikey mumbled under his breath as he turned his head away, but Leo caught the words and his brow furrowed in confusion.

"What? Mikey—"

Mike turned. "If you hate it so much, then why the hell does it feel like I'm the only one trying, the only one who even cares!"

"I do care, Mikey," he began, completely taken aback. But Mike obviously had more to unload.

"I mean, I'm trying really hard to be all, like, neutral and supportive and stuff, trying to get things back to normal, but Donny's the only one who's letting me in! What hope is there that Raph will talk to Don if he won't even talk to  _me_? And Master Splinter's doing nothing, you're doing nothing…" Suddenly Mikey's angry expression dissolved, and as he stood there facing Leo, he just looked lost and desperate. "And you…I just, I could really use some backup here, you know?"

And all of the explanations, the defenses Leo had been prepared to give went stale and flat in his mouth as he looked at the younger turtle.

"Mikey, I'm sorry," he said, his heart settling heavily into the pit of his stomach. "I didn't even…I hate this just as much as you do, you know that. In fact, I hate it so much that it's all I can think about most of the time, and I guess I've been so preoccupied with that, I never stopped to think that you might need me, too. I…shit. I'm so sorry."

The younger turtle's expression relaxed, and he exhaled softly. "Well, you should be. Because you have been a terrible big brother. If this had been a test on how NOT to treat your favorite sibling, you'd have aced it—with like, a billion extra credit points. If we were playing a video game called Big Brothers in Jerkland, you'd have found all the secret levels. If there was—"

"Okay, okay, you've made your point," said Leo, throwing up his hands. "I am a horrible brother, okay? I mean, if they gave out trophies to the lousiest brothers, I'd get the tallest one. All right? Satisfied now?"

Mikey smiled, delighted as he always was when Leo joined in with his jokes, but then his face turned sober once again. "No, not the tallest one. I think that one has Raph's name on it."

Leo looked down and nodded. "Yeah, I can't disagree with you there." Then he looked up again. "I am really sorry, Mikey. I never intended to make you feel like you were alone in this."

"It's okay," his little brother said, always as quick to forgive as he was to joke. "I just want things to go back to normal. I mean, I get it—I get why it'd be hard for both of them. Which is why I thought…" He paused, casting a hopeful look at Leo. "Maybe it would help if someone a bit more, uh, assertive, tried getting through to them." He paused, but when Leo remained silent he plowed ahead. "Can't you just, like, pull that pain-in-the-ass big brother stuff you're so good at and speed things along a bit?"

Leo shook his head slowly, feeling more frustrated than ever. "I can't. Not this time," he said.

"Why not! I mean, I know you've been trying to do things a little differently, and I'm down with that, but this is different! How can you just stand back and  _watch_  this?"

Though it was clear that he was more frustrated than angry, this was about as close as Michelangelo had ever come to questioning any decision of Leo's, and that in itself was indicative of just how concerned he was.

"It's complicated, Mikey," Leo began, using the words almost instinctively, intending put his brother off without going into details; but the way Michelangelo's brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed slightly at those words made Leo reconsider. Of course Mikey would know that that phrase was often followed by reassurances that he didn't need to worry about it, that Leo would handle things. That's what he'd always done—taken it upon himself to "handle things", somehow feeling that by not filling his youngest brother in on the details, he was shielding him. But shielding him from what, exactly? From having to grow up, take responsibility? From having to worry? None of those justifications made sense to him now.

Growing up was part of life, and worrying was part of having family. Maybe the kid brother he remembered had been only too happy to go along with whatever he came up with, blissfully ignorant of the details, but Mike wasn't a kid anymore. It was easy for Leo to forget that while he was gone, his brothers' lives hadn't just stopped. They'd all learned and changed, gained life experience. Grown. And if he wanted his relationship with Michelangelo to do the same (which he did, more than he could ever say), he was going to have to stop trying to protect him from everything.

And by the looks of things, Mikey was ready for more, too.

Leo sighed. "For one thing, I don't think it'll work this time," he continued, and when Michelangelo realized more explanation was forthcoming, he relaxed still more.

"But you don't know that unless you try," he countered.

Leo paused, thinking carefully about what to say. "No…that's true. I wouldn't know for sure. But I've tested the waters with Don, and his response only strengthened my feeling that if I push too hard, it'll just make him more resistant. I don't know if you've noticed, but he's a little less likely to back down these days," he added with a small smile.

Mike rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I kinda picked up on that." Then he looked thoughtful for a moment. "Okay, you may be right; but that's Don. What about Raph? I mean, I know you'd have to, like, corner him long enough to listen first, which could be tricky. Not to mention potentially, um, hazardous to your physical well-being. But it's not like you haven't done it a million times before."

"Believe me, sometimes it's all I can do to stop myself. But, well…" He wasn't sure he should say anything, but as Mikey stared at him expectantly, he decided it shouldn't matter. "The other reason is, Master Splinter doesn't want me getting in the middle of this one."

Mikey's eyes bugged out a little. "He  _said_  that?"

"Not in so many words," Leo admitted, "But that was the gist of it." That actually  _was_  too complicated to explain.

"That doesn't make any sense!" protested Mikey. "Why would tell you to stay out of it?"

"I didn't ask," replied Leo honestly, "but I got the impression that there's something going on, some sort of arrangement or lesson in all this that I'm not privy to."

"But… you didn't  _ask_? Jeez Leo, what's with you?"

"Nothing's 'with me.' It doesn't matter what his reasons are, that's all—the result is the same. For now, I'm not getting involved," he said firmly.

"So that's it? Your brilliant strategy here is to do  _nothing_?"

Leo studied his Mikey's wide incredulous eyes, and he tried to put himself in his brother's position. He'd been just as worried as Leo, but he was used to looking to others for direction on how to handle things—and lately, he'd received none from either Splinter  _or_ Leo. The least he could do was clue his brother in on what he was thinking, cast him a lifeline to help him keep afloat in all this, let him know he wasn't alone.

"No, not  _nothing_ ," Leo answered after a moment, giving him a pointed look. "Just nothing…overt." He paused to let that sink in before adding, "Do you understand?" The underlying message was unspoken, but he hoped Mikey got it anyway.

_Trust me, I'll handle this._

Mike studied his eyes closely, and then his face smoothed in relief. He even managed a ghost of a smile, but a moment later the smile solidified as a devilish gleam came into his eyes.

"Hey Leo…Sensei told  _you_  not to interfere, but he didn't mention me, right?"

"No, he didn't," answered Leo, somewhat wary.

"Do you think he'd be mad if I—"

"I don't know, Mikey," he interrupted. "I really couldn't predict how he'd react. But perhaps Master Splinter didn't say anything to you because he felt you were unlikely to go the confrontational route. That's just… not you. You break the tension with your jokes, and stop rest of us from taking ourselves too seriously—try and get us to have fun. That kind of thing has a bigger effect than you might think. And maybe that's what Raph and Don need right now."

Mike eyed him suspiciously. "That your way of telling me to butt out?"

Laughing, Leo said, "Well if I can't tell Raph and Don what to do, you've gotta let me have  _something_."

Mikey grinned. "Well yeah—who knows what might happen otherwise. You'd probably just perish if you didn't have anyone to boss around; you'd like, whither away and die. I bet when you were gone on training, you had to order the sun to set every day just to  _survive_."

Leo rolled his eyes. "Nope, too reliable—the sun would never put up any resistance, and I'm used to you three, remember?"

This time it was Mike's turn to laugh. "I see your point." Then he turned serious again. "So…they'll get over this, right?"

Leonardo made it a point not to lie to his family, but it was all he could do to resist giving Mikey the reassurance he was looking for. Instead he once again clapped a hand to his brother's shoulder. "Don told us he'd work things out with Raph. I guess we have to believe that."

Mike looked down at his feet and nodded. Then he looked back up at Leonardo. "And in the meantime, if Raph thinks he can put me off that easily, he's got another thing coming. He should know by now that little brothers have these, like, really annoying physical properties, like some sort of super-adhesive rubber or something, cuz we just bounce back until we stick." He grinned again. "And anyway, no one can resist the Mikester for long—it's only a matter of time."

Leo soon learned that Michelangelo was not exaggerating. Apparently their talk had bolstered Mike's spirits as well as renewed his determination, because it seemed that no matter how many times Raph refused him after that, or even worse just walked by without saying a word, Mike didn't let it get him down. Outwardly, anyway. Once Leo caught his eye and gave him a barely perceptible nod, a small sign of support, and Mike winked back, mouthing "only a matter of time."

Meanwhile, with Raph almost completely absent in between training sessions, Don and Mike spent most of their free time cruising the sewers in search of habitable space. Leo didn't often join them, but true to his word to Don he spent a good deal of time increasing his level of proficiency with the security system. He figured that way he would at least be around in the unlikely event that Raphael decided to come out of isolation, but when he did it was usually just to plunk himself in front of the TV for a while. If Leo joined him, he would wordlessly toss the remote his way and retreat to either his room or the dojo, so Leo took the hint and let him be. He didn't want his brother to become even more reclusive than he already was.

About two weeks from the day Don first announced his intention to move out, Don and Mike returned home early from their exploration of New York's finest underground and demanded that Leo accompany them out again. It wasn't too difficult to guess what they wanted to show him; the two of them were practically bursting with excitement—but still Leo wasn't prepared for what met his eyes when his brothers drew their sleds to a halt in front of him. It was, simply put… disgusting. Floors covered in filth, walls coated in mildew…Leo felt the urge to shower just  _looking_ at it, and that was saying a lot for someone who had spent the majority of his life in the sewers. But his brothers were unfazed, practically giddy even, as they lead him on foot to the far end of the chamber, ascended what Leo dubbed the "Tetanus Ladder," and emerged in a spacious and much less foul-smelling room.

Leo looked around in surprise, sending his flashlight beam around the space. Aside from the usual refuse littering the floor, it didn't seem half bad. It was just a single spacious chamber like the one below, no separate rooms or anything, but even Leo recognized the potential.

"How'd you guys find this place?" he asked.

"It was Mikey," Don answered, a shadow of a grin visible in the semi-darkness. "The only one dumb enough to slog through that shit and come up here—this space isn't even indicated on the maps we have."

"Not  _dumb_ ," Mike protested. "Dedicated! Do I live up to my end of the bargain, or what? Y'know, I should really charge a finder's fee on something like this."

"Ah…how bout if I just pay you in pizza?" Don asked.

Michelangelo pretended to think about this proposition, and he and Don haggled over how much pizza and what kind while Leo inspected the room more closely.

"It doesn't look bad…" he said finally, "But there's one major problem—it's a dead end. If something happened, you'd be trapped in here, Donny. It's too dangerous."

"Dude, over here!" Mike said, grabbing Leo's arm and leading him to the far corner of the asymmetrical space. He directed his light on the wall. "Look, you can see there used to be a ladder here," he said, indicating off-colored spots that did indeed look like ladder attachments. And then he turned the beam straight up.

Leo gazed up to see a vertical shaft extending upward from the corner. "Whoa—you practically have to be under this thing to even know it's here. But where does it-,"

"Old subway maintenance chamber that connects with one of the old lines," Don responded triumphantly, joining them at the corner. "It's abandoned, but I think I can route power in from an old backup generator that's up there; it hasn't been functional in ages from the looks of it, but with some tweaking, I just might be able to do something with it. And," he continued excitedly, using his flashlight to point to the far wall, "Check this out! This pipe leads to a water main, so I think I can get running water in here, too. It'll be a bit tricky, but if it works, I'll be set!"

Leo nodded enthusiastically, beginning to feel his brothers' excitement rubbing off on him…but when the full meaning of what he was hearing and seeing settled in, his enthusiasm began to flake and peel away, like glue left to dry on his skin. "This is it, then," he said simply.

"Yeah," Don breathed. "This is my new place."

They stood there silently then, all three of them in the dark, and just breathed together. This chamber would soon be filled with light and noise that was uniquely Don's, while his room at the lair would go dark and silent. Leo tried to convince himself this was a beginning, not an ending… but the truth was that even though Donny was standing right beside him, Leo already missed him terribly.

-=-=-=-=-


	10. Catalysts for Change

Once Donatello had found a suitable location for his new living quarters, the fact of his move went from a distant possibility in Leo's mind to a looming certainty. Don spent every moment he wasn't training or sleeping trying to get things ready, and while Leo pitched in where he could, it was Michelangelo who really came through for Don, throwing himself into the effort with all of the energy he usually put into  _avoiding_  anything that remotely resembled work.

Maybe it was partly because he'd been the one to find the place, or perhaps it was more due to Donatello treating him as an asset rather than a nuisance for a change. Whatever the reason, days around the lair began to resemble a stage production with extended intermissions—long periods of quiet while Mike and Don were away cleaning the new space from top to bottom or off on salvage runs, punctuated by bright, animated scenes co-starring the two of them getting things ready, brainstorming and joking, arguing and cooperating.

And then there was Raphael—an extra with no lines.

Raph was aware that Don had found a location for his new living quarters; Leonardo had personally seen to that. Unsurprisingly, the only response Raphael had given was a shrug and a muttered, "good for him." But that night Raphael had gone out again, and when he'd returned just before dawn, his smell, his energy, was all wrong. Wherever he'd been, Leonardo would bet his katana it wasn't with April.

Since Don and Raph didn't seem inclined to spend time together voluntarily, Leo settled for making it happen by pairing them up frequently during rooftop runs, hoping it might help them re-forge some sort of connection. But he was reluctant to put Don and Raph together for anything more involved than short drills—they encountered trouble semi-frequently on their nighttime excursions, and any slight hesitation, any awkwardness when they were fighting together could lead to detection, injury, or death. The problem was, how would he really know for certain he could trust them unless he just turned them loose together?

The chance to find out arrived unexpectedly one night during an otherwise typical workout. They had just reconvened and were heading home at the end of several hours of practice on the rooftops, when telltale noises alerted them to suspicious activities taking place down below. The four halted as one, and moved soundlessly to investigate.

What met their eyes when they peered down into the alley was a burglary in progress—two men shuttling loot between a first floor window of the very building they were standing on, and a van parked just inside the alley, situated for a quick getaway when the theft was complete. There was also at least one man in the vehicle, and at least one inside the building. He figured there could be as many as seven men, and the leader felt rather than saw his brothers' eyes as they turned on him—eager, waiting. It was his call.

He studied the men below more closely, trying to gauge their level of expertise and physical fitness. Not pros, he concluded, but not novices either. The job seemed well organized, and these men didn't show the jumpiness, the hesitation typical of amateurs. The two he could see well looked like they could probably handle themselves in a tight situation. Leo considered briefly, weighing the risks against the possible benefits, but it was too perfect to pass up.

"Raph. Don. You're up," he said in a voice just barely above a whisper. A flash of white in the dark was all he caught of Raphael's eager grin, and Mike shifted restlessly. "Mike and I will be on standby if you need us," he added, effectively letting them know they were to come up with their own plan.

Ignoring Mike's groan of disappointment, Leo did some more quick factoring in his head. No, the odds weren't quite what he wanted…

"Switch weapons," he instructed firmly without taking his eyes off the men below. He didn't want things to be  _too_  easy on his brothers—that would defeat the purpose.

Don and Raph glanced at each other but hesitated, the tension between them almost visible, rippling like heat distortion over hot asphalt.

"Come on. Switch it up and get moving," Leo prompted, and he heard a frustrated noise from Raph that was typically accompanied by one of his dark scowls. The two exchanged weapons, with Raph muttering, "Better off using my bare fists."

"This is NOT a Nightwatcher gig, Raph," Leo warned harshly.

"Gee thanks, Fearless," hissed Raphael. "Almost forgot I wasn't wearing two tons of _metal armor_."

Donatello rose, belting the sai before shrugging off his shoulder bag. "Anything else?" he said dryly, obviously no more pleased than Raph by either his partner assignment or his change in weapons.

Leo started to speak, but was cut off by Michelangelo speaking in a deep and exaggeratedly serious voice.

"Be careful—and remember, this is NOT a game. Also, this may come as a surprise to you, but thieves don't typically like to be interrupted mid-robbery, so be prepared for some sort of resistance. And watch yourselves going down because it's dark. That's what happens at night, it gets dark, which you ought to know, but I'm telling you anyway because I'm Leonardo. It's kind of chilly out tonight, too, so if you happen to find any mittens or scarves on your way down, you might want to put those on so you don't catch a cold. And-,"

"We'll meet back here when you're done," Leo said firmly, cutting off any further commentary from Mikey and shooting his brother a glare that most likely couldn't be seen in the dark.

Don and Raph took the cue and moved off. When they were out of sight, Leo turned to his younger brother. "Mikey, go to the other side and take position closer to street level, but stay hidden. I want to see how they do on their own. Understand?"

"Yeah…gotcha," Mike replied, his voice serious for once. "Where are you gonna be?"

"I'll be right here," Leo answered, and he pulled Don's bag of tricks closer, rummaging around until he found what he was looking for—night vision goggles. He held them up for Mike to see. "Watching."

Mikey flashed him a quick smile and moved away, going some distance from the crime scene before looking for a place to cross to the other side. Meanwhile Leo put the goggles on and moved to the edge to view the action. The scenario couldn't have been better if he'd planned it himself. It was the perfect test run, so to speak—a chance for him to see how Raphael and Donatello worked together for a real mission, but still under relatively safe conditions, with both him and Mikey ready to assist should they need help. It was harder for Leo than he let on to relinquish control of a mission, to remain in the sidelines while his brothers took the risks.  _But a good leader must know when to step back,_ he reminded himself.

Even so, he waited anxiously for the first glimpse of his brothers. The night vision allowed for pretty good visibility in spite of the distance and the greenish cast over everything; Donny never went halfway on technology, that was for sure. Leo hadn't watched Raph and Don descend, so he had no idea where they'd show up first, but he didn't have long to wait. He first caught sight of one of them diving stealthily into the shadow near the front of the van, followed by the other taking position just above the window of the building where the theft was taking place. He wouldn't have seen them at all without the help of the night vision. For a few minutes Leo saw no further movement, but then one of his brothers emerged from underneath the van. That would likely be Donatello, Leo thought, finished with disabling the vehicle. A smart move when they didn't know how close the thieves were to completing their haul.

Just then Leo's cell vibrated, and he answered it.

" _Agent Orange to Blue Leader, come in Blue Leader,"_  came Mikey's whispered voice.

"Mikey, Agent Orange is—nevermind. Just tell me what's going on."

" _Hey! What are you trying to do, compromise the mission? That's why we have code names!"_

"We don't. Have. Code names," Leo said through clenched teeth. "Now tell me what's going on."

" _Not until you say it right."_

Leo was loath to give in, but he knew compliance was the quickest way to get the information. Besides, there would be plenty of time to think of a fitting punishment later. He drew a soothing breath, and replied stiffly, "Blue Leader here, requesting an update. What's your status, Agent Orange?"

An image of Mike's victorious grin appeared in his mind, and he squeezed his phone a little more tightly than necessary. If his brother didn't tell him what was going on RIGHT NOW…

But he never finished his mental threat. Michelangelo, apparently aware that he'd pushed Leo as far as he was going to go, gave him the update without further delay.

" _Okay, there's another dude over here,"_ Mike said. " _He's hanging out around the corner, disguised as a bum, but I'm pretty sure he's part of the op. Probably a lookout."_

"Can you see if he's armed?"

" _Can't see, but what d'you wanna bet he is?"_

"Keep track of him," Leo said after a moment's pause, "but don't interfere unless you have to. Use your best judgment."

In another situation, Leo might not have been so keen to leave things to Mikey's 'best judgment,' but he knew Michelangelo could handle one guy—he'd take the guy out or alert Don and Raph before he'd let someone harm his brothers.

" _Roger that, Blue Leader. Orange out_."

Leo ended the call, and returned his focus to the events unfolding below.

The two men shuttling the stolen goods back and forth had picked up another load from the window, and as soon as they started towards the van, one of his brothers—probably Raph, if that had been Don under the car—slipped inside the building. The men dropped off the next load at the van, and when they'd moved away again, the hidden turtle rose from his crouched position alongside the vehicle and swiftly entered the back, presumably to neutralize any men inside.

Suddenly one of the men out in the open halted mid-stride, and wheeled around to face the van, alerting his companion to whatever problem he'd detected. One drew what looked like a phone or a radio from a pocket, and the other drew a gun and began moving cautiously towards the vehicle.

"Shit," cursed Leo under his breath, his fingers clenching tight. He was too high up to hear much, but the men had probably heard a noise from the van.

Leo's phone buzzed again. "What is it," he answered.

" _Dude's moving towards the alley, looks like he's drawn a gun,"_ Mikey reported.

"There may be trouble—stay on him and be ready to take him out if you have to."

Leo was beginning to sweat now, and it wasn't exactly warm out. He reminded himself that Raph, as Nightwatcher, had probably taken care of stuff like this single-handedly…but he'd also been wearing body armor then.

The gunman had gone wide and was approaching the back of the van at a diagonal, his weapon held at ready, but Leo saw something that made his heart speed up in an instant—a figure launching itself from the window of the building and hurtling full speed at the man closest to him, the one alerting his buddies. The man began spinning around before the turtle reached him, but he was too slow. Raph—Leo now knew it was Raph by the bo he held—drove the end of the staff into the man's solar plexus, causing him to double over. The ninja then clubbed him in the head and the man dropped, but Raph didn't pause. Instead, without wasting a movement, he executed a series of flips away from the crumpled form just as the gunman near the van reflexively swung the muzzle of his weapon in Raph's direction.

Leonardo held his breath and braced himself for a shot that never came. Instead Donatello came leaping out of the van and knocked the guy down with a brilliant flying kick, sending the gun clattering away. The thug scrambled to get away once he hit the ground, but Don quickly incapacitated him while Raph retrieved the gun. Then, almost as if on cue, Raphael and Donatello both melted swiftly into the shadows closer to the buildings.

Leo nervously rang Mikey to check on the status of the remaining man. Useless adrenaline coursing through his body, he almost pulverized the phone in his fist when Mike didn't pick up. In all likelihood Mike was just too close to the man to answer, but Leo couldn't prevent several other possibilities from flashing through his brain. He could try sending a text message, but there was no telling if it would do any good. God _damn_  it, why hadn't he just told Mike to take the guy out before he could become a factor?

He had just made up his mind to begin making his way down when movement caught his eye at the entrance to the alley. It was the final man, dressed like a bum just as Michelangelo had reported, moving swiftly towards the van—and then he saw Mike, hugging the shadows against the far wall across from where the van was parked. Leo gripped the ledge he was leaning on and scanned until he picked out one of his brothers crouched near the rear of the van. He couldn't find the other.

As the thug sidestepped cautiously alongside the van approaching the rear, the turtle near the back of the van slammed one of the back doors shut, drawing the man's attention. In that instant, while his focus was diverted, the second turtle that Leo had lost track of flung himself over the hood of the vehicle and tackled the thief to the ground. There was a scuffle and a gunshot, and Leo's heart leapt to his throat, but in a moment it became clear it wasn't his brother he needed to be concerned about. The ninja quickly gained the upper hand, and it was only arrival of the other turtle an instant later that saved the man from serious injury. Leo had a pretty shrewd guess as to which of his brothers had to be hauled bodily off the of the thief's body.

Once he saw that things were under control, Leo turned away and sank weakly down against the concrete ledge, pulling the night vision goggles off as he waited for his speeding pulse to slow.  _Fuck_. He was sure this wasn't good for him—it took way more out of him to stay back and watch than it did to actually fight. If he'd been down there with his brothers, he would have been cool as a cucumber.

His phone buzzed then, and he noted the time on the display before he answered—the whole thing had taken less than 10 minutes. Felt like five times that to him. "Yeah," Leo answered.

" _Did you see that shit, bro?! Raph and Donny kicked some serious shell! I didn't even have to clue 'em in, they were totally on to the guy."_

"Either of them hurt?" Leo asked, thankful that Mikey was too excited to bother with code names.

" _Not from what I could tell—nothing serious enough to slow 'em down, anyway."_

Leo exhaled slowly. "Nice work, Mikey. Hang out there until they've cleaned up, then come on back."

" _Roger that,"_ Mike said.

Two minutes later Don called. " _Mission accomplished, we're on our way up."_

"Good," Leo answered, as if no other outcome had ever crossed his mind. "Any problems? I heard a shot."

" _Nothing we couldn't handle—there was an extra man on lookout that we hadn't initially figured in, but Raph heard one of the others radio him so we were prepared. The gunshot you heard was just a minor slip—Raph apparently had control of the guy's hand from the first, but the guy squeezed off a shot before he could hit the pressure point."_

"And neither of you are hurt?" Leo had to hear it from the source.

" _We're fine, just the usual bruises. Oh, and we secured the scene and called it in on one of their phones, even though it might not've been necessary after the shot."_

"Okay. Once you're up here, we'll be off. Nice work, both of you."

Once he knew everything was okay, Leonardo was actually quite pleased with the way things had gone—cool heads all around, team work, even some camaraderie in evidence on the way home as Michelangelo re-enacted some of his favorite moments from what he had seen of the action, punching both of his brothers playfully. Neither Raph nor Don commented much, but they looked pleased as they fended off Mikey's mock attacks. Leonardo even allowed himself to hope that the mission might help generate some goodwill between them. And Mikey's hype over their success, although rather over the top, certainly couldn't hurt.

As they drew closer to their agreed-upon manhole, Raphael dropped back and let everyone else move ahead before pulling out his shell cell.

Mike and Don made their way down the fire escape while Leo remained up top, biting back a reminder to them to wait a minute and make sure the coast was clear before dropping to street level. He'd gotten better about speaking every little bit of completely unnecessary advice that came into his head, but that didn't stop him from thinking it. And as was usually the case when he forced himself to trust his brothers' judgment, they didn't let him down and stopped to watch and listen from the bottom of the fire escape. As Leo waited above, snatches of Raphael's quiet phone conversation drifted over to him.

"Yeah, went pretty well," his brother was saying in a low voice. "Little bit of action, nothin' big."

A pause. "Yeah, no sweat."

Another pause. "Uh, actually, I was kinda thinkin' of stickin' around the lair tonight… ya know, hangin' out with the guys…"

At that point Don and Mike looked up at him, and Leo nodded his approval and moved down to joint them. He was inwardly pleased about Raph's decision to stay in tonight—he tried not to get his hopes up, but it was the first time Raphael had given any indication of  _wanting_  to spend time with them in weeks. It was a start, anyway.

Once underground, they ran hard through the sewers to burn off any unspent energy. When they reached home, Leo reported to Splinter while Mikey proceeded to the kitchen with the intention of replenishing some lost calories. Leo emerged from Splinter's quarters a few minutes later to see Raph loitering in the living area, distractedly playing with a dart he held in his hand. When Raphael realized Leo had entered the room, he hastily threw the dart, and then went to retrieve the others already planted in the board.

Don and Mikey came out of the kitchen just as Raph had finished gathering the darts.

Raphael turned to his brothers. "Hey, you guys wanna watch a movie or somethin'?" he asked. And while he was trying hard to seem casual, Leo could sense the energy rolling off him in alternating waves of longing and anxiety. Raph looked between Donatello and Mike, who wore residual smiles from some lingering joke between the two of them.

Mike's grin widened. "Hey, yeah! Nothing like a good old-fashioned movie night with tons junk food to celebrate another fine ass-whooping." He turned eagerly to Don. "Whaddya think, Donny? We can do your stuff tomorrow; I've got the whole afternoon free."

Don shook his head. "No-can-do, bro. I have other stuff I need to work on tomorrow, and I won fair and square—a bet's a bet."

Mike's smile faded to a frown as he stood staring at Donatello, probably hoping he would reconsider, but it didn't work. Though Don said nothing, the way he met Mikey's eyes made it pretty clear that he wasn't going to let him off the hook.

Mikey sighed and looked back to Raph, shrugging apologetically. "Sorry, dude. You'd think by now I'd have learned not to challenge Don in Ms. Pacman, but I did promise him I'd help if I lost. Raincheck, okay?"

Don offered no such apology, but grabbed hold of Mike's mask tails and began pulling him away. "C'mon, time's a wastin'… don't want me to have to get out my bullwhip, do you?"

Michelangelo allowed himself to be lead off, but he didn't respond to Don's attempt to initiate playful banter, and he threw a wistful look back over his shoulder as they left.

"Right… no prob," said Raphael to no one when they'd departed.

The leader's eyes narrowed slightly. Whether consciously or not, Don had clearly used Mike to make sure Raph was the odd man out. And he either didn't notice the way his behavior affected Raphael, or he didn't care.

Leo didn't know which prospect was more disturbing.

Mikey obviously wasn't too happy about it, but honoring an agreement or promise, even in the form of a bet, was part of their upbringing. Besides, with as much time as he and Don had been spending together lately, Mike was probably reluctant to do anything that might damage things between them.

Even though Raph's recent isolation from the family was self-imposed, Leo couldn't help but sympathize with how he must be feeling right now; he knew what it was like to feel out of place in your own home. After his two-year absence, he had returned to a familiar setting only to find that everything in it had changed—as if the lair had been redecorated not with furniture, but with memories and emotions. There had been fights, tears, jokes, inventions… uncountable interactions while he was gone, changing the entire flow and dynamic of the household. His brothers had given hints of those experiences with every breath and comment, and for Leo it was like smelling something delicious that he would never be able to taste. Two lost years of inside jokes replacing nearly seventeen years' worth—or so it had seemed to him at the time.

With Raphael spending so many evenings away from the lair these days, Leo knew he was probably beginning to feel some of the same things, and without even thinking, he heard himself say, "I could go for a movie. What did you have in mind?"

Raph started a little when Leo spoke, and looked back at him suspiciously.

_Oh, real smooth, not obvious at all_ , Leo chastised himself. He'd blown it before he'd even had a chance—if Raph thought for a second anyone felt sorry for him, he instantly closed himself off.

"Fuck it—I got other stuff to do," Raph said with undisguised hostility.

"Suit yourself," said Leo with a shrug, and he watched his brother head towards the dojo. Then he waited for a minute, listening, and when all remained more or less quiet he presumed that Raphael had decided to go with weights or katas instead of the punching bag. He turned toward the TV and sighed; he was stuck now. Leo didn't particularly want to watch a movie on his own, but if he didn't it would be like announcing to Raph that he had made the offer out of pity, and any chance of Raphael opening up to him would be lost—and his brother definitely needed an ally right now

So Leonardo knelt by the DVD tower and scanned down the list of titles, trying to find something he could tolerate that his brother might find agreeable as well. Once Raphael finished his workout, there was a slim chance he would finish watching the movie with Leo. He finally stopped on the Bourne Identity—it had enough action to catch Raph's interest, and Leo had at least enjoyed the books. He popped the movie in and decided to go ahead and clean some of his weapons while he watched. He might as well do  _something_  useful while the movie was on.

About two-thirds of the way through the film, Raph re-emerged from the dojo. He glanced at the TV on his way through to the kitchen, and then came back to watch as he drank water. Then he retraced his steps and called back to Leo from the kitchen. "Hey, you want anything?"

"Uh, ginger ale… and some pretzels."

Leo had almost asked for a beer, but he didn't want to overdo it. He was walking a fine line right now, and he knew the safest thing to do for was pretend he didn't care. Funny how with Raph, he had to put more effort into making it seem like he didn't care than he did into actually helping him.

Raph came back out with Leo's snacks and a soda for himself, and settled on the couch. "Thanks," said Leo simply as he opened the can. They watched the rest of the movie together, and although they didn't talk other than to critique the fight sequences, Leo felt it was a step forward—at least Raph hadn't retreated immediately to his room this time. He even retained a thread of hope that, in spite of Don's rejection, Raph might make more of an effort to be social.

But he should have known that with Raph, things were never that simple.

The next day as all four of them were leaving the dojo following their group training, Michelangelo said, "Hey Raph, wanna do that movie thing tonight? Donny and Leo—,"

"No."

"Aw c'mon, it'll be fun, we got this—,"

"NO."

"But it was your idea in the first place!"

"Mikey, I fucking said NO! If ya want me to be clearer, by all means keep asking!"

One step forward, two steps back.

Apparently Raph's offer had been good for one night only, because he made no further attempts to reach out. In fact, if anything, he became even more withdrawn, and Leo was afraid that if things didn't begin to heal between Don and Raph soon, their relationship would become permanently disfigured, like a broken bone that was never aligned properly. It may one day be functional, but it would never be as strong.

The extent of Leo's worry was most evident when he tried to meditate. While he had become quite good at  _shikantaza_ , or meditation by "just sitting" while allowing body and breath and mind to become one, when he felt his mind was in greater turmoil, he often found it helpful to begin with breath counting. Each thought that that threatened to distract him disrupted the counting, thus serving as a reminder that while the thought should be allowed to run its course, the object was  _dharana_ , to focus the mind at will, regardless of intrusions. Nothing else existed but the breath, in and out, one through ten, then back to the beginning in an endless cycle until the numbers themselves were obscured by the pure cycle of air from nostrils to lungs through to his very center, the  _hara_ , and back again in a golden flow.

Once the breathing became all, he usually slid quite naturally into  _dhyana_ , true meditation…but lately, he'd been finding it harder and harder to move beyond  _dharana_. Thoughts intruded relentlessly, and while he did his best to acknowledge them and let go, resume counting, they surged up like waves on a beach. He tried not to let it frustrate him—Master Splinter, the Ancient One, and every source he had on meditation had assured him this was not failure. There was no beginning and ending; no stage was more valuable than any other. Still, concentration was such an essential element of anything relating to Zen, including martial arts, he couldn't help but feel inadequate when it proved beyond him. And that was why he was particularly irritated when he heard a knock at his door late one night just as he was slipping into full meditation.

_This better be good_ , he thought, but when he turned to see Michelangelo standing in his doorway, he knew his brother had something more important to tell him than a new high score on a video game, or a late night Ninja Warrior marathon.

"Sorry to interrupt," Mike said grimly, "but I thought you should see this."

Leo rose without question and followed his brother to the living area, where they both halted just behind the couch.

"I fell asleep watching TV, and when I woke up, the news was on," Mike explained, glancing at Leo.

But the older turtle was already fixated on the television, a mantle of dread settling heavily over him.

"… _signs of a struggle consistent with patterns documented by investigators during that period. The five alleged thieves were found bound at the scene when police arrived, along with the stolen merchandise. It remains to be seen whether there will be enough evidence to definitively tie this to the vigilante known as Nightwatcher, but the similarities are too great to ignore…"_

Leo didn't need to continue watching—hearing it was bad enough. He closed his eyes and grasped the back of the couch with both hands, bowing his head and trying to breathe evenly and steadily. It crossed his mind that perhaps he'd fallen asleep after all, because this sure felt like the beginnings of a nightmare. But then again, it wasn't like he hadn't  _seen_  the signs—he just hadn't put them together.

Raph engaging in maniacal workouts every evening, but refusing all offers to spar; Raph turning in early and holing himself up in his room all night instead of running off to April's; Raph scowling and silencing calls on his shell cell after glancing at the caller ID; Raph crouched on a ledge and gazing off towards darkened reaches of the city while on a rooftop run, heedless of Leo's whispered commands for him to move out, telling a story with his posture that should have sent warning bells ringing in the leader's head.

Raph, entering the dojo for practice this very morning, meeting Leo's eyes briefly and probably accidentally after skipping over Don and Mike, who were talking over endless plans for the new accommodations. That single look had shaken Leo more than anything he'd seen of Raphael's behavior—his eyes had seemed both hollow and somehow fevered. Sick. It also made Leo wonder just when Raph had stopped looking him in the eye as he used to, cocky and fearless with a smirk to match.

Was this what he'd been like when Leo was gone? Haunted by something only he could see, driven to the edge before donning the suit that would make him both savior and scourge of the city?

The newscaster was still speculating about the return of Nightwatcher when Leo's thoughts came back to the present, and he couldn't stand it anymore. "Turn it off," he croaked, and Mike obeyed. After a few moments of silence, the younger turtle spoke up tentatively.

"Sh-should we try calling him? Maybe he was at April's and this thing was all just a, a copycat or something. We can just ask him if—,"

Leo stopped him with a look. "No, Mike, there's no point."

Michelangelo squinted slightly as he studied his face. "Well doesn't he at least deserve the chance to  _explain_ before you go accusing him?"

Shaking his head, Leo said, "I'm not going to accuse him of anything. In fact, I'm not even going to mention it." He gave his brother a pointed look to halt any protests. "If that  _was_  Raph," and something told him it was, "confronting him won't change anything—acting out like this is just a symptom of the underlying problem. If you want to affect the leaves, you must first look to the roots."

Mike raised his brows. "Dude, seriously? Do you and Master Splinter get your lines from the same book of fortune cookie fillers?"

Leonardo wasn't in the mood to joke around, and when Mikey saw his face, the younger turtle cleared his throat and returned to the original subject.

"Okay, so you're going to, um, study the roots then? And uh, figure out how to influence… stuff?"

Leo took a deep breath, staring down at his knuckles as he gripped the couch. "What I'm going to do is introduce a catalyst—something to speed up the inevitable reaction."

Mike leaned in close and peered at his face suspiciously. "Don? Is that you in there? Have you been experimenting with Leo's brain again?"

Pushing Mikey's face away from his own, Leo responded, "Just because  _you_  didn't pay attention to chemistry lessons doesn't mean Don's the only one who absorbed anything.

"Hey, I absorbed stuff," Mike said defensively.

"Like what, all the smoke and vapors emitted when your lab projects exploded?"

This was supposed to be an insult, but based on the way his eyes glossed over, it didn't faze Michelangelo. "Ah yes, the explosions… I did have a few good ones before Don took control of the entire lab space," he said with a wistful sigh. "Though Donny had some good ones of his own, I have to admit."

They both went quiet then, and Mike's expression turned somber. He was probably thinking, as Leo was, that Don wouldn't be taking over the lab space for much longer.

"So what do you have in mind? To speed things along, I mean," Michelangelo asked.

"I don't know yet," Leo answered grimly. "But I'll figure it out." And there was no time to lose.

Leonardo didn't know if Splinter would approve of what he intended to do or not, but the difference was that this time, it was immaterial. This was no longer a decision based in logic; within moments of watching the newscast, he'd known in his gut what he had to do, and all of his former reluctance was replaced with clarity and resolve.

What he'd told Mikey was true—his only intention was to help set things in motion, give a tiny shove in a direction he hoped would lead to reconciliation between his brothers. If executed properly, no one would even know the part he played. Even so, Leo was prepared to accept any consequences that came about as a result of his involvement, whether from his father or anyone else. His mind was made up. Now he only needed to bide his time until he saw an opportunity, a way to mobilize one of his brothers without making it seem too obvious.

A couple of days later, when he and Raph were working out independently in the dojo, the right set of circumstances came together. Leo was doing some weight training, and Raph was in the process of sending his punching bag to an early grave when his cell began ringing. Raph pulled it out of his belt and glanced at the display, then strode out of the dojo before answering the call.

His brother stopped just outside the room, close enough that Leo could hear the conversation. And even though he knew that if Raph really wanted it to be private, he could've gone farther away or simply lowered his voice, Leo felt slightly guilty for listening.

"Yeah," Raph answered shortly from where he stood just outside the doorway. "Yeah, I'm here," he repeated irritably after a moment's pause. "Reception's fine. Guess I just don't feel the need to talk every second."

Pause.

"I'm actually kinda tired, think I'll just stay in tonight. Turn in early."

More silence.

"Jesus, April!" he exploded, making no effort to keep his voice low. "I said I was tired, okay?! I don't gotta travel halfway across the fucking city to see the fight, we got a TV right here!" Raphael waited, listening, then cursed under his breath. "Gimme a copy of the fuckin' schedule, then, so I'll know how often I'm expected to come over. Just don't forget to block out some time for training…unless I'm supposed to discontinue that now, too."

Another pause, longer this time.

"Yeah, I heard you! I'll call you if I think of it."

When he re-entered the dojo seconds later, Raphael attacked his punching bag with renewed vigor, a tight expression on his face.

Leo's gave no outward reaction of having heard the phone call, instead channeling the shock and outrage he felt into his workout while his mind raced to figure out if he might be able to somehow use this information. When Don poked his head in the dojo moments later and did a quick scan of the room, Leo had a glimmer of an idea, and before his brother could retreat, Leo called out to him.

"Oh hey, good timing—can you give me a hand, Don?" he asked, setting the bar down on the floor.

Donatello halted. "Well actually, I was just looking for Mikey to-"

"It won't take long. I just need someone to spot me on bench."

Don hesitated, looking slightly put out, and glanced at Raph, but he knew better than to suggest Leo interrupt someone else's workout when he was standing right there.

"Sure thing," he said with a sigh, and made his way over. Leo adjusted the weight on the bar, and settled himself on the bench as Don took up position near his head. Leo began his first set, taking his time in spite of his brother's ill-concealed impatience. Halfway through the first set, Mikey burst into the dojo, bracing his arms on either side of the doorway.

"Oh, hey Don, there you are! Still need help moving that stuff?"

"Yeah, that'd be great, Mike. I'll be right there—could you maybe start loading boxes on the sewer slider for me?"

"Well that depends—and I want to be absolutely clear, here. Does this mean I actually have  _permission_  to go in your room? _Unsupervised_?"

"Yeah, sure, just grab the boxes stacked-"

"And I can  _touch_  things?"

" _Just_  the boxes."

"And what is your definition of a box. Does that mean anything rectangular in shape, or does it have to be made of a particular material, like wood or cardboard? And what if-"

"Mikey. Just shut up and load the boxes, okay?" Don said with a roll of his eyes and a tolerant smile.

Michelangelo laughed. "Sure thing bro!" he said brightly, and ducked back out of the dojo.

Leo wrapped up the set, straining with the last few although he finished unassisted, and Donatello turned to grab more weights to add to the bar.

"Twenty, Don. Thanks."

Leonardo took a new grip on the bar, but he didn't raise it yet. Instead, he stared at Don. When his brother realized he hadn't resumed lifting, he looked down, and Leo fixed him with a calculated look before glancing pointedly at Raphael.

Don got the message, but judging by the way he rolled his eyes upward as if asking for patience, he wasn't happy about it.

"Uh, Raph," Don said.

There was no break in Raph's activity.

Donatello cleared his throat. "You wanna… give us a hand, too?"

Leonardo continued lifting, exhaling slowly through each upward push.

Raph let one more kick fly, sending the bag swaying on the chain. "Sorry to  _disappoint_ you," he said, "But I got other plans." And without looking back, he grabbed a towel and stalked out of the dojo.

Leonardo glared up at Don, who merely shrugged. "You heard him, he's got other plans," Don repeated.

_Yeah, right, other plans,_ thought Leo. He wondered what those other plans could be, since based on the phone call he'd just overheard, they apparently didn't include April. His stomach knotted in anxiety, but he pushed it down. Now wasn't the time for that.

Leo shook his head. "Could you have made it any more obvious that he was an afterthought?"

Don snorted in response, and wordlessly added more weight when Leo replaced the bar again. He worked through the final set in silence, muscles shaking, and though Don had to spot him on the last three, he didn't quit until he'd completed eight reps.

"That it?" Don asked when Leo let go of the bar.

Leo sat up slowly. "No, that's not it," he said answered, kneading his palms. He met his brother's eyes. "When are you going to be through punishing him?"

Donatello looked back at him expressionlessly. "What are you talking about?"

"You're too smart to play dumb, Donny. You know what I'm talking about."

"What, just because I don't feel like acting like we're best buds? Come on, Leo, he was lying to me! To all of us! For a month! Doesn't that make you mad?!"

Leonardo shrugged noncommittally, taking in Donatello's huffed breaths. "I'm sure he feels bad about that, though."

"Well he should! Stop looking at me like that, like you know what's best for everyone. You have  _no idea_  what this feels like, so cast your holier-than-thou bullshit judgment on someone else."

Leo felt a flash of anger at Don's words, but he immediately siphoned it away, using it to inflate the mental image of a golden balloon on a string, watching it become buoyant before letting it float away in his mind's eye. He couldn't let his brother turn this into an argument. Start an argument with Don, and he would simply use his outstanding logic to counter every point that was made. But plant a suggestion, and it would tumble relentlessly in his mind like a stone in the surf, until he had no choice but to grab hold and examine it.

At least, that's was what Leo was banking on.

"I'm not trying to judge anyone—all I'm saying is that I think Raph would like to make amends, but it's hard for him to reach out. Would it kill you to make it a little easier on him? Meet him halfway?"

Don turned away and started towards the door, casting his next words over his shoulder dismissively. "I'm sick of being the one who has to fix everything."

Leo waited until his brother was almost through the door before he played his final card. "Well whatever you're doing, I think it's working," he said in an offhand way.

Donatello stopped cold, but he didn't turn around. "What's that supposed to mean."

"He hasn't been going over there lately, and I heard them arguing on the phone earlier. I don't think things are going very well."

The subsequent blade of silence that cleaved the air was narrow, but significant all the same. "Whatever. Not my problem," Don said finally, and walked the rest of the way out.

Leo closed his eyes and focused, feeling the turbulent wake of his brother's disturbed energy even after he'd gone. It was a risky move, but if his instincts were right, he had just set things in motion…he only hoped he hadn't used too much force. Leo himself could handle any backlash, but there was no way he could control the direction things took from here.

It was up to Don now.

-=-=-=-=-=-


	11. Storm then Silence

The apartment was always freezing when April first came up from the shop. But even though the cold had a way of clinging to her bones this time of year, like lint on a wool coat, she refused to keep the heat turned up in her apartment when she wasn't home. Today was no exception, and after adjusting the thermostat, April rubbed her arms briskly and began sorting through the day's mail—junk, junk, bill, and more junk. She gave a weary sigh and massaged her eyes.

Business in the shop had been slow all day, so she'd passed most of it behind the counter on her laptop, researching pieces of interest that she was considering obtaining for the store. Just as she'd made up her mind to close early, thinking longingly of a cup of tea before dinner, a lone customer had walked in—and stayed for over an hour without buying a thing, wrinkling her nose in a disgusted way every time she turned over a price tag. Once, April had even caught her wiping a finger along one of the display tables, as if checking for dust.

Normally she would've laughed it off, but as she'd watched the daylight fade outside the shop windows, she'd found herself becoming uncharacteristically tired and irritated. What was it about the final weeks before the arrival of spring that made her feel so torpid, so…dispirited? Like she just couldn't shake off the malaise of winter. What she really needed was something to snap her out of the funk she was in, clear her palate of the bad taste left by that customer. Then she smiled slowly and picked up her phone—she knew just the thing.

She dialed quickly, and didn't have to wait long before he picked up.

" _Yeah,_ " came Raphael's brusque voice from the other end.

"Hey, it's me," she said brightly, but instead of a return greeting, the only response she got was silence. "…Raph, are you there?"

" _Yeah, I'm here,_ " he answered, a hint of irritation in his voice.

"Sorry, just making sure. I couldn't hear anything, so I thought maybe the line went dead. Sewers and cell phone reception don't always get along," she said with a laugh.

" _Reception's fine. Guess I just don't feel the need to talk every second._ "

April pursed her lips together, her smile vanishing in a flash of irritation. So this was the way it was going to be tonight. Dealing with Raphael in a bad mood wasn't exactly what she'd had in mind to bolster her spirits, but it wasn't surprising, either. He'd been even more moody than usual lately, and though she'd learned more details through phone calls with Mikey than from Raph himself, she knew he was having a rough time at home. Only that last thought stopped her from making an issue of his slightly offensive comment.

"Well, I'll get right to the point then," she continued staunchly. "I was calling to see if you wanted to come over tonight, maybe have some dinner and-"

" _I'm actually kinda tired,"_ he cut in. " _I think I'll just stay in tonight. Turn in early._ "

She paused for a moment. Raphael, the turtle formerly known as Nightwatcher, tired at such an early hour? Maybe he was feeling the same malaise she was. "Are you sure?" she coaxed. "There's that fight on tonight you wanted to see—"

" _Jesus, April! I said I was tired, okay?! I don't gotta travel halfway across the fucking city to see the fight, we got a TV right here!_ "

"Okay, okay!" she said quickly, mentally taking a step back at his harsh tone. "It was just an idea; feels like I haven't seen you in a while." She hesitated before adding, "And… I miss you."

Though this last was completely honest, it was a difficult thing for her to admit under the circumstances. Her usual reaction when someone became hostile or uncommunicative with her was to withdraw, either out of a need to protect her emotions or a petty desire for revenge. But all that had ever accomplished with Casey was to widen the growing rift between them, and she didn't want to begin that cycle with Raphael. So when he tried to push her away, she did the opposite of her instinctive reaction.

Raph muttered something under his breath and said, " _Do me a favor and gimme a copy of the fuckin' schedule, then, so I'll know how often I'm expected to come over. Just don't forget to block out some time for training…unless I'm supposed to discontinue that now, too._ "

April clenched her jaw, her face flushing hot as she gripped the phone tightly in both hands. "I never—!" But she halted herself even as the words formed in her mouth, and lowered the phone from her ear as she took several deep breaths.

_No. Don't let him draw you into a fight. That's exactly he wants._

And damn it, no, it wasn't right for him to take all of his stress out on her! And yes, it made her mad. Made her  _furious_! But if she allowed herself to be pulled into a fight, especially over the phone, she could predict exactly how it would go. Tempers would rise, they'd both say things they'd regret later, and absolutely nothing productive would come of it.

She didn't really know the best way to handle the situation, so on a whim (or an inspiration) she did the opposite of what he would've expected: she ignored his comment, tried to be understanding, and gave him space.  _Deep breath, and here we go..._

"Listen…of course it's no big deal if you don't want to come over, I wasn't trying to pressure you. It's fine. Just…call me later if you want." She paused again, hearing nothing but dead air. "Raph, did you-,"

" _Yeah, I heard you! I'll call you if I think of it_."

"…Okay. Talk to you later then."

Silence again. Only this time, it was real.

* * *

After she hung up the phone, April took out her anger on the hapless kitchen drawers and cabinets, slamming them and ranting out loud like a crazy person as she set about making tea. But as the adrenaline began to fade, it didn't take long for her anger to degenerate into helpless frustration and finally self-pity. She allowed herself to wallow for a short time—until her tea was ready, to be precise—and then she called her sister. It was a little strategy Uncle Augie had taught her as a girl. Don't try and suppress your emotions, just put a time limit on them. When the time is up, make an honest effort to do something to change your mood. By the time she got off the phone with Robyn and ate some dinner, she felt appreciably better. There was never a shortage of drama in her sister's life, and she was usually content to do most of the talking—a definite plus when most of the news in April's life revolved around a quintet of mutants.

Only then did she allow herself to mentally re-examine the phone call with Raph, and she was very glad she'd handled it the way she did. It still irked her—this was Raphael she was dealing with, after all—but now she was able to be a bit more objective. Sure, it felt like he hadn't been over in a while, but then again "a while" was a relative term. After seeing him almost every day for the last several weeks, four days  _felt_  long, but maybe he really was just tired. He was allowed to be, wasn't he? It was true he'd been doing all of the traveling to and fro out of necessity, and while it hadn't ever seemed to bother him before, maybe the initial "new relationship" enthusiasm was beginning to wear off. It happened. Or maybe he was getting sick… which might help explain how irritable he'd been with her lately. If any of these speculations were true, giving him some breathing room was the best thing she could've done.

So she made up her mind  _not_  to do the typical girl thing and tell him she was okay with him not coming over only to punish him for it later. No, she'd told him it was fine, so she was going to do her best to actually  _be_  fine, and think of an enjoyable way to spend the remainder of her evening. A squashy loveseat, three chapters of her book, and half a glass of red wine later, it seemed she'd managed to do just that… until the ringing of her cell phone marred the quiet of her evening, like a skitter of tiny paw prints over new snow.

The display on her phone indicated it was Raphael calling. "Hello?" she answered, pleasantly surprised. She really hadn't expected him to call tonight; perhaps he was in a better mood.

"Hey, it's me. I'm outside."

_Outside?_  "Uh, okay, I'll be right there," she said, and hung up the phone before going to the window. After opening it, she stepped back to allow him to enter. "What—I thought you weren't coming over?"

"Changed my mind," he answered shortly, avoiding eye contact as he stalked past her into the kitchen with his phone still in hand. In a typical display of manners, he didn't even bother checking to see if he was still welcome.

_Perfect, just perfect,_ she thought. Obviously his mood hadn't improved any. If she wanted to punish him, now would be the perfect time—send him home, teach him that he couldn't treat her like crap and expect her to welcome him with open arms. On the other hand, though, maybe he'd changed his mind because she had backed off, taken away the pressure. And truthfully, even though part of her felt like she was letting down her entire gender by even admitting it to herself, she couldn't deny that she was pleased to see him. If he could read her thoughts, if he could feel how her knees went slightly weak at times just from looking at him, how something as insignificant as a waft of his scent or the smooth flexing of a muscle as he reached for the remote could send a delicious tingle straight through her, how a glimpse of his smile, that genuine, unaffected grin, eyes sparkling behind his red mask, could make her want to spontaneously hug him, just hold him and bask in the knowledge that he was  _hers_ … if he knew those things, she wondered how their relationship would be different.

"Uh, sure… okay," April said. "I'll just see if the main event's come on yet." Sometimes if she just gave him some time to wind down when he was in a bad mood, or "de-tox," as she liked to call it, he lightened up considerably on his own. She flipped on the TV as he occupied himself in the kitchen, and found the channel showing UFC, studying the fighters for a moment before declaring, "I think we're good, these guys don't exactly look like big-name fighters." She glanced back over her shoulder then, seeking confirmation of her assessment, only to realize he wasn't paying attention to a single thing she said. "Raph? Can I help you… find something?"

He was banging through the kitchen cabinets, shuffling items around in search of something, and he didn't answer her.

"Raphael, what're you-,"

"Somethin' to drink," he said distractedly.

April moved back towards the kitchen. "Well, there's still some beer in the fridge if you want it, I—"

"Lookin' for something stronger."

April stopped. "Oh." She was a little surprised, but decided not to make a big deal out of it. "There might still be some of C—some Jack Daniels, in one of the lower cabinets in the back.

He grunted in acknowledgment and started on the lower cabinets, eventually straightening up, clutching a familiar bottle. He retrieved a glass, poured himself a modest measure, and threw it back like a shot. The turtle grimaced and coughed slightly as the liquor went down, but apparently it didn't put him off in the slightest because he set the empty glass on the counter and immediately began pouring himself another drink.

"Hey, why not save a step and just go straight from the bottle," April said lightly after he neatly put away the second one. She didn't care, really, she just couldn't resist giving him shit about it.

He slammed the glass down and wheeled on her. "What the hell! You my  _mother_  now or somethin', feel the need to tell me what to do every goddamn  _second_ like you know what's best for me?" he yelled, throwing up his hands.

"No! It was just a joke, Raph, I don't care if you—"

"Cuz if that's the way it's gonna be, I might as well start fucking Leonardo and save myself a trek across the city!"

April's stomach went cold with shock for just an instant before heat seared through her body, and she could do nothing but stare at him in seething silence. This wasn't her usual reaction when someone made her angry—normally she became quite vocal, dishing it right back at twice the volume. But that was when she was merely angry. Now she was furious beyond reason, furious even beyond yelling. Her arms hung stiffly at her sides, and her hands were balled into fists so tight she could feel her nails digging into her palms.

"You  _asshole_ ," she said through clenched teeth, her voice low and calm.

Raphael scoffed. "You just now catching on ta that?! Well I got some more news that might really shock ya then—this is how I  _am_ , April, and I ain't about to change! What you see is what you get!"

She glared back at him, her pulse pounding through her temples, and almost spoke the thought that came foremost to her mind…but something about his posture, something about the way he was acting was…wrong. Even in the relatively short time they'd been together, she had begun to decipher the strange, convoluted pathways his moods took. But right now, she was completely baffled. Sure, he had a quick temper, but it wasn't like he chose to be that way. Right now it seemed forced, almost like he was doing it on purpose.  _What the hell is going on?_

And then, like the smell of imminent rain carried on a breeze, it came to her, and she prayed he didn't notice her hands beginning to tremble. Suddenly it all made sense—his unexpected visit, the whiskey (to steady his nerves, perhaps?), the exaggerated response to her dig, the crude and completely uncharacteristic comment… it all fit.

_No. No. I won't let it happen,_  she thought, breathing shallowly.

"I know what you're doing," April said, anger and fear tightening her voice so much it sounded as though it might snap.

Raphael looked at her darkly. "Oh, yeah, what is it, April? Hurry, enlighten me, 'cause I can't _wait_  to hear this! You think you're so much fucking smarter than me, always got me figured out, so go ahead—what is it I'm doing?!"

Her pulse quickened, and she fought to keep her voice steady. "You're trying to get me to break up with you."

He looked back at her, glowering, but he didn't speak. And his silence was all the confirmation April needed.

She made a sputtering noise of disgust. "God, mutant or human, men are all alike!" she spat. "Of course, there's absolutely no way I could fathom the inner workings of your  _complex_  mind! You think you're the first guy to think of this, to try this? The minute things get tough, the minute they get uncomfortable, you all want to bail out! And then, you don't even have the GUTS to end it yourselves! No, why should you do that when it's so much easier just to push me away, treat me like shit, prod at me with your pointless mind games until I finally snap! WELL I'M NOT DOING YOUR DIRTY WORK!" she yelled, chest heaving. And they just glared at each other, eyes clashing like opposing pressure systems. After a moment, she continued on, her voice low and intense…distant thunder.

"If you want this to be over, you're going to have to goddamn do it yourself, you  _coward_."

She watched him closely then, saw his mouth twist in to a snarl, his hand move to his belt…and she prayed her instincts hadn't misled her, because there was no turning back now. The storm was upon her and she didn't even have an umbrella.

In a flash, he'd closed the remaining space between them and crushed her up against the wall, gripping her by the upper arms so tightly she only barely stopped herself from crying out. " _Nobody_. Calls me. A coward," he said through clenched teeth, his face so close to hers that she could taste the potent alcohol on his breath. She could feel the power coursing through him, crackling and singing like high voltage wires, and his hands were iron cuffs shackling her arms. She swallowed, knowing he could snap her in two if he chose—or if he lost enough control—but she wasn't finished.

"Then prove me wrong!" she said, glaring at him defiantly. "End this, right now, whatever way you choose. Or else tell me you want to keep going, that you  _want_  to try and make this work! Because I'm not breaking up with you. And if you keep going on like this, keep pushing me, keep hoping I'll get fed up and end it, then I'll keep right on calling you a coward with every breath I have in me— _and you'll know I'm right_ ," she finished scathingly. And although she tried to appear unafraid and composed, on the inside she was anything but.

He growled in rage, veins pulsing in his neck, and slammed her against the wall again—not hard enough to really hurt her, just hard enough to show he  _could_. And all she did was stare into his dark eyes flecked with amber—eyes so deep, they went all the way down to his soul. Eyes so sharp, they cut all the way down to hers, piercing her core until it was painful to even draw a breath. Beneath the glaze of fury, there was a panorama of pain, ragged and desolate, obscuring the natural landscape beneath. This wasn't Raphael, this warped creature before her, but she knew he was in there somewhere.

_Don't cry_ , she told herself.  _Don't you dare cry! You've lost if you do…_

Her only hope— _their_  only hope—was for her to make her bluff convincing, to pierce the shield of anger and force him to face whatever had triggered this. If she started to cry, then he would back down and try to comfort her. But if that happened, they would never move past this. She had to be strong—like marble, or titanium, or diamond…

Like Raphael.

Then, as he stared at her, something else flickered across the turtle's eyes—something April couldn't identify—and he pulled back abruptly and let go of her arms. Her legs didn't want to support her, so she slid down against the wall, fighting the urge to rub her arms even as she continued to glare at him. Raphael backed up dazedly, but after a moment his face tightened and he clenched his jaw.

"You don't even FUCKING know what you're talking about!" he yelled. He spun swiftly towards a tall, heavy bookshelf that stood against the near wall, and pulled on it with all of his strength until it toppled, stepping out of the way as books rained off of it and struck the floor like hail in advance of a tornado. The book shelf went over in what seemed like slow motion, and before it could hit the ground, it was stopped by the long coffee table in front of the couch. The violent thunder-crack of wood on wood made April jump, and the floor protested with a shudder.

"You got NO CLUE what it's like!" he roared, picking up a paperback and firing it against the far wall as hard as he could. "I can't… I can't handle it anymore!" His hands were balled into fists, and suddenly he lifted them to the sides of his head and contracted his arm muscles with all of his might, as if trying to fight something off. "FUCK!" he shouted, and kicked a few of the books that were scattered on the floor.

April understood that he wasn't talking to her anymore. Whatever he was fighting, it was inside of him.

After a brief internal battle he let his arms fall back down to his sides and just stood there, shaking and catching his breath. When he spoke again, though his body was as taught as stretched rubber, his voice was calm. Quiet.

"He hates me, April. He fucking hates me, and I can't stand it."

Raphael wasn't looking at her, wasn't even facing her, but she could see pain etched in every contour of his body. And she knew the moment of truth was at hand. "You know that's not true," she managed.

"Oh, no?" he said, whipping his head around. "He's movin' out—leaving! He can't even stand to live under the same  _roof_ as me, that's how much he hates me!" Then his shoulders slumped and he looked away.

April closed her eyes. At last, he'd spoken the words she'd been waiting to hear for some time now. When Michelangelo, assuming that she already knew from Raph, had referenced Donatello's impending move weeks ago, April's stomach had lurched sickeningly, as if she was on a rollercoaster making its initial terrifying drop. And if the news itself wasn't painful enough, there was the added sting of knowing that Raphael hadn't told her himself. Yet if it was hard for her to deal with the notion of Donatello leaving, she could only imagine how it was for him, and instead of calling him out on it, she'd let him be, hoping that he'd tell her on his own. But she'd never expected it to play out like this.

At that moment, April wanted more than anything to go to him, to try to comfort him…but she recognized instinctively that this was one of those rare times not for actions, but for words—and suddenly the right ones came to her.

"You're right," she said quietly, still sitting against the wall. "I don't know what it's like for you, or for him. But I do know one thing: ending this, leaving me—it won't put things back the way they were."

He didn't respond, and without looking at her he moved smoothly over to the fire escape window, sliding it up.

"Raphael!" she called desperately when he was half way through the window, fearing she had said the wrong thing. "You don't have to choose between me and your family! It'll be okay! We can—"

But before she could finish, he was gone, swallowed by the yawning night.

-=-=-=-=-=-


	12. Messages in Blood

After leaving the dojo, Donatello went to help Mikey load the remaining boxes, but his initial enthusiasm for the evening plans had dropped precipitously. Even though he told himself that Leonardo's accusations were completely unfounded, the whole thing left him feeling irritable and inexplicably restless, sort of like having caffeine jitters without the euphoric high. And he couldn't stop Leo's words from replaying in his head, like one of those annoying but oddly catchy commercial jingles that made you want to projectile vomit even as you caught yourself humming it.

_Well whatever you're doing, I think it's working… I don't think things are going very well._

Don clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening unnecessarily around the box he'd just finished loading on the sewer slider.

"Donny?"

Donatello started a little, realizing he'd been just standing there clutching the box while Mikey continued working.

"Are you gonna, like, help with the rest of these?" his brother asked, gesturing at the rest of the boxes. "Cuz if not, I think I'm going to have to demand a raise."

"A raise?" Don queried as he went to pick up another box, eager to redirect his brother's attention. "I wasn't aware you were getting paid."

Mike halted. "Yeeeeaah, about that…I'm afraid there's been a minor… adjustment to our contract. My Union rep says my services are valuable and I deserve just compensation for them."

He flung a sidelong glance at Don, the mischievous sparkle in his eyes making it pretty obvious he was expecting a response, but Don merely snorted a little and continued loading. He just wasn't in the mood for playful banter, but Mike didn't let that deter him. He continued to try to draw the older turtle into conversation while they finished packing up and set out in the slider, filling in Don's brooding silences with ceaseless chatter as they sped through the sewers. Don listened with half an ear, part of him grateful for the distraction, but he didn't say much. The headache that had begun as a dull pressure behind his left eye while they were loading was now making its way across his temple, and Mike's constant talking wasn't exactly helping.

"Okay, here we go again," Don said when they reached their destination, and they began the whole process in reverse, this time with the added complication of getting everything up to the second level by way of a narrow, rusted ladder. They donned headlamps in order to keep both hands free, and rigged up a large packing crate Don had salvaged from the junkyard to serve as a cargo lift. Mike volunteered to remain on the upper level and draw the lift up while Don moved the boxes from the vehicle.

Things went rather smoothly at first, in spite of Mike's attempt to send Don into a panic by saying the rope was slipping just as he was raising some rather fragile equipment. ("Michelangelo, try anything like that again and you will be  _walking_  home. Understand?") It wasn't until they'd completed several loads that they ran into actual trouble—Don picked up yet another box from the sewer slider and began carrying it to the ladder, but a short distance from the vehicle the bottom of the box gave out.

"Shit!" Don yelled, scrambling to support the bottom as the contents dropped into the muck.

"What?!" called Mikey from above.

" _Damn_  it! This box just came apart on me; the bottom was soaked!" Don said, inspecting the remains of the cardboard in his hands before casting it aside.

"What was in it?"

Donatello retrieved the items, grimacing as he plucked them out of the filth that covered the ground. "Just some hardware—nothing ruined," he called back. But when he went back to the vehicle and inspected some of the boxes more closely, he noticed that quite a few others were wet, too—they'd probably gotten splashed with water along the way.

"Great, this is just fan-fucking-tastic," Don muttered through clenched teeth, and even though he wasn't normally one to take out his frustrations on inanimate objects, having more than a little insight into how much work they often took to repair, he had the uncharacteristic urge to just heave  _all_  of the boxes into the muck and get it the hell over with.

"Don, what's up? Should I come down?" Mikey called down once more.

"No…no, I just have to waste time inspecting and reinforcing  _every fucking box_  before I lift it—a whole bunch of them got wet on the way over." And as much as he hated it, standing there bitching wasn't going to make things go any faster. With a resigned sigh, Don went back to work.

It seemed to take forever just to get all of the boxes to the second level in this fashion, having to stop and check every single one, and by the time they were ready to begin the "real" work, Don's headache had gone from localized to ubiquitous. All he really wanted to do by this point was down some ibuprofen and rest his head on something soft, but he'd always had a hard time stopping in the middle of a project—a tendency that every one of his family members seemed to disapprove of until it was something that directly benefited  _them_.

They both took a short break to drink some water, and after a few minutes, Donatello dug out a couple of twelve-volt car batteries and began hauling them to the center of the room. "Hey Mikey, would you get out the work lights while I get the batteries ready?" he asked, unable to keep the fatigue out of his voice.

Michelangelo set his water down and turned slowly to Don. "Uh… I thought  _you_  brought the lights."

Don straightened and looked at his brother, shifting his headlamp sideways a bit when Mike put a hand up to shield his eyes. "No, I was helping Leo, remember?" he said slowly, as if speaking to small child. "That's why I asked  _you_ to load the slider."

"Dude, you told me to load the boxes in your room—that's what I did. You didn't say anything about lights."

"Wha—I shouldn't have to say anything, it's common sense!" Don sputtered, ignoring the way his head pounded when he raised his voice. "How can we get anything done without light?!" He began automatically checking through all of the boxes they'd brought up, hoping the lights ended up in one of them somehow, but even before he'd finished he knew it was useless. The lights would be exactly where he'd last seen them—in his lab alcove right next to the trash can, waiting to be loaded on the slider.  _Perfect. Just perfect. If Leonardo hadn't distracted me before we left, this never would have happened!_

"Well, do you want me to run back to the lair and get them?" Mike offered helpfully. "Or maybe just hold up the spare flashlight we brought along? That might be good enough for now, combined with—"

"No, Mike, what I want you to do is THINK next time!" Don snapped, and for a second, it felt really, really good to unleash his frustration on someone…but then he caught sight of his brother's wounded face in the glancing beam of his headlamp, and he felt worse than if he'd just kicked a handicapped puppy.

Don sighed and closed his eyes, lightly massaging his temples with his fingertips. "I'm sorry, Mikey, it's not your fault. I'm not having the best night. Let's just… go back."

"Okay, sure," Mike said, by all appearances satisfied with Don's apology. "We can go back and pick up another load of stuff while we're at it. That way it won't be a  _total_  waste of time."

Don shook his head. "No, I mean let's just go back—cut our losses and call it quits for the night."

"Are you sure? Cuz I don't mind coming back."

"Yeah, no, I'm sure," Don said tiredly. "I'm not really in the mood for this anymore, and there are still scores of things I need to get done at the lair before I'm ready to move."

"Okay, if that's what you want," Mikey said with a shrug. "Anything you want me to help with back home?"

"No, I don't think so, but thanks for the offer. I think I'll just sort through some computer hardware, take inventory of what I have and what else I might need, that sort of thing. Kind of a one-turtle job. "

Michelangelo nodded but then paused for a moment, studying Don acutely. "Donny…is everything okay?"

"Yeah, everything's fine," he answered, just a touch too quickly for his liking. He stopped, took a breath, and repeated the statement more slowly. "I'm fine. I mean, I have this headache, but besides that, everything's fine."  _Sure, just keep telling yourself that._

"Okaaaaay," said Mike doubtfully, but he didn't push. "I guess it's just as well—I have some important stuff to do myself. I've been wanting to make my own miniatures of the Justice Force, and I finally got the paints to do it! But if you  _wanted_ , I could, like, set up camp in your general vicinity while you're working… Just in case you change your mind."

In other words, just in case Don wanted to talk. He reached out and jostled Mike's shoulder, giving a lopsided smile of gratitude. "Thanks, but I don't think I'd be very good company tonight anyway." Then he canted his head towards the exit. "Now let's get out of here, huh?"

Fortunately Mike didn't appear to take his refusal personally, and he merely nodded in acceptance and led the way back down to the sewer slider.

Back at the lair, Don paused only long enough to allow the ibuprofen he took to take effect somewhat before he began the next task . He started by gathering together all of the computer parts he had lying around—stuff he'd collected from junkyards and dumpsters, parts donated by Leatherhead, and old machines he'd set aside after upgrading to something better— and then he spread them out on the floor in his room. It was past time for him to consolidate the hardware and really see what he had to work with in terms of getting the new residence equipped to meet his high technological standards. He began sorting through the items and breaking them down, dismantling housing to get to the wiring and motherboard, comparing CPUs, and extracting RAM. And although he tried to focus his mind on the work at hand, the very thing that was troubling him rose continually to break the surface of his thoughts. It was like trying to keep a buoy underwater—the harder he tried to keep Leo's words submerged, the stronger they resurged.

Just what had Leonardo meant by that, that whatever Don was doing was "working?" Okay, yeah—he wouldn't deny it. He  _hated_  that his brother and April were a couple—hated it more with every passing day. Hated it so much that any thought of them together made every last fiber of his being twist and curl with revulsion, like a leaf shriveling in the heat of a fire. But that didn't mean he was trying to sabotage things! What, Leo thought he didn't have enough to keep him busy these days? He thought Don had nothing better to do in his nonexistent free time than plot subtle forms of revenge on Raphael? It was absurd!

No, if things weren't going well between Raph and April, it wasn't Don's fault. In fact, the only one whose fault it could  _possibly_  be was Raph's—he was the only one dumb enough to screw up something like that. God, what an imbecile. If Raph ruined this, if he thought someone like April came along twice in a lifetime, he was worse than an asshole—he was a complete and utter MORON!

And the more Don thought about it, the more the idea chafed him—if Raph wrecked things, then April was going to be the one to get hurt. And she was too good for him in the first place! If there was any balance, any justice to the world, Raphael should be the one to get dumped, to get his heart broken! But Don knew the bitter truth only too well—there was no justice to the world, no grand scheme shaping events. There was only entropy.

As these thoughts spread like ripples in his head, his careful dismantling of the hardware became less patient, more forceful. When he encountered a particularly stubborn DIMM chip, instead of loosening it with pliers first, he merely pulled harder, and when it finally gave the sudden release caused the inside of his thumb to slide along a slender ridge of metal.

" _Shit_ ," he cursed, cradling his thumb, but it was more out of surprise than pain. It didn't hurt much yet, but he knew at a glance that the cut was deep. That part of the thumb had relatively little flesh on it, and for just an instant before the blood welled up, a pale gleam of bone was visible between the almost surgically parted skin.

He clamped his free hand over the gash and looked around for something to wrap it with, hoping to at least prevent blood that he knew was coming from getting all over his computer stuff, but his room was an absolute disaster area right now. By the time he made the decision to head for the bathroom, he could already feel warmth pooling in his cupped hand and trickling thickly down his wrist.

Don made it to the bathroom swearing a blue streak under his breath, and immediately put his hand over the sink, holding it there while he rummaged around in the bin underneath for a first aid kit. Then he cursed some more upon finding it missing. Again. Like it always seemed to be when he needed it, no matter how many times he reiterated the importance of keeping the first aid kit fully stocked and readily accessible at all times. Don grunted in annoyance and turned on the faucet to rinse both of his reddened hands, the sanguine puddle in the basin turning into a torrent of pink when the water hit it, and he swiped a tattered hand towel from where it hung on a nail next to the sink and pressed it to the cut. Not the most sanitary compress, but it would have to do.

As he applied pressure to the cut, Don's mind turned once again to his earlier exchange with Leonardo, and his irritation spiked. Damn it! Damn Leonardo, damn Raphael, and damn himself for allowing them to get to him! Of all the stupid, careless, clumsy ways to get himself hurt. Why couldn't he let go of this! It was NOT his problem; it might not even be true for that matter! Pure speculation on Leo's part.

But then… he had to admit that Leo's "speculations" had a way of turning out to be pretty dead on. But so what! That still didn't change the fact that it had nothing to do with him.

Still simmering, Donatello turned his attention back to his hand and slowly pulled the reddened towel away to assess the bleeding. He knew right away it was no better—as soon as the pressure was removed, blood welled instantly to the surface and flowed over his palm. It was deep, but otherwise not serious from what he could tell. Unfortunately, it would be difficult to get stitches in until the bleeding had at least slowed somewhat.

He turned on the faucet to rinse his hand again, hissing through his teeth as the cold water hit the wound, but he forgot even the pain as he watched the dark rivulets of blood spiral down the drain, crimson tendrils streaming out like the tales of a mask.

Don's mind stalled for a second at the image so vividly imparted in his own blood, and he blinked once—twice, then shook his head and clamped the towel quickly over his hand, halting the swirl of color in the basin.

_No, not a mask, not a sign …it's just blood_. But the image remained stubbornly imprinted on his brain, and he pressed his fingers harder against the wound, so hard that he had to clench his teeth against the pain, desperately trying to convince himself it didn't mean anything—but even pain couldn't chase away the nagging voice in his heart, the one that had no roots in either intuition or logic. The one that spoke only the deepest truth, whether or not he wanted to acknowledge it.

_But isn't this what you wanted?_

He closed his eyes. Okay…so maybe he hadn't been  _trying_  to sabotage things between April and Raphael, but he couldn't deny that part of him, whether consciously or not, had been hoping they would fall apart. Deep down he'd been waiting for things to go wrong, waiting for them to fail, imagining that it would somehow make him feel better, feel vindicated.

But as it turned out, it only made him feel sick inside at the  _uselessness_  of it all.

If they split up, how would that change anything? It wasn't like April would turn around and proclaim her undying love for Don, right? Nor, he realized for the first time, could he ever see her in quite the same way again—not after she'd bypassed him for his brother. He looked up and confronted his own reflection in the grainy mirror above the sink. So he hadn't been technically trying to get them to break up, but he couldn't deny that his behavior had likely been a cause of strain between them. It wasn't all his fault—but there was always a choice to be made.

"Fuck," Don said out loud, and it wasn't due to the pain of the cut. No more excuses, no more procrastination—he'd put things off long enough.

Keeping his hand wrapped in the towel, Donatello knelt and rummaged around in the cabinet until he found a loose roll of gauze and some tape. Then he wrapped his thumb and hand in a bulky dressing.  _That should hold it a few hours_ , he thought. Even the stitches could wait that long.

After wiping down the sink and cleaning up as best he could, Don pulled his shell cell out of his belt and stared at it, dismayed to feel his palms turning clammy and his heartbeat accelerating with the mere thought of what he was about to do. He attempted to calm himself by breaking things down into small steps, trying to plan what he would say, but it didn't do much good—and on top of that, his recently faded headache was returning. Finally, fearing that he would lose his nerve altogether if he didn't act soon, he decided it wasn't necessary to know what he was going to say just yet. For now, he would simply tell Raph he wanted to meet to talk, and assuming his brother agreed, it would buy him some more time to think.

He took a couple of short, deep breaths, as if prepping for a sprint, and hit the appropriate speed dial. No backing out now—even if he hung up, Raph would know who had tried to call.

Ringing…

Ringing…

Don felt like his tongue was pasted to the roof of his mouth as he waited for his brother to pick up, wondering if Raphael was staring at the phone and debating whether or not to even answer. And in spite of having decided to just get it over with, some part of him still hoped his brother wouldn't pick up.

Finally there was a click on the line, and Don's stomach swooped as he tried to find enough moisture in his mouth to form words—but he'd been gearing himself up for the sound of his brother's voice. And the shock of hearing the female voice that answered was like having ice water thrown in his face.

"Hello?"

_April._

The turtle's chest squeezed painfully, trapping his breath, and he had to remind himself to let it out. True to her word, April had been calling him every few days or so since the last time they'd seen one another, but Don never answered, and she never left a voice mail. Which was just as well, because merely seeing her  _name_ spelled out on the caller ID was painful enough that he'd deleted her from his contacts. Now whenever she called, the display just said "unknown caller."

Nearly a month had gone by now, and he was still trying to make himself believe it.

It wasn't that he'd decided he wasn't  _ever_  going to speak with her; it was just that he hadn't yet decided either way. But right now, short of hanging up on her, he didn't see that he had much choice.

"Hey, uh," Don faltered. He breathed deeply, trying to sound cool, calm.  _Yeah, right._ "I was just, um, trying to reach Raph. Is he…is he around?"

"Sorry Don, I didn't mean to—I only picked up to let you know that he doesn't have his phone on him. He left it here, and I didn't want anyone to worry…" Her voice trailed away.

"Okay, so he's, uh, headed back home then?" Don asked as evenly as he could manage.

April hesitated. "I'm not…I don't know. He didn't really say."

Don would have liked nothing better than to leave it at that and get off the phone as quickly as possible, but years of close friendship made him react instinctively to the wrongness in her voice.

"What's wrong?" he asked quickly.

"Nothing, it's nothing. I just…I only answered to let you know he doesn't have his phone with him," she repeated, sounding uncomfortable.

Don squeezed his eyes shut and breathed slowly. He didn't believe her, not for a second. He knew her too well. And once again he had a decision to make. He could let it go, pretend he believed her, or pretend he didn't care—whichever he felt he could pull off—and hang up the phone. Or he could reach out, and start the process of trying to repair some of the damage he was responsible for. If there was no way to reach Raphael, he could at least talk to April.

He forced the words out with an effort, saying them quickly and decisively, like tearing off a band-aid to get the painful part over with. "April, can we talk?"

There was a long silence on the other end. "…Okay, sure. When do you—"

"Right now. I'll come over."

"Now?" She hesitated again. "Um, sure. Sure, that's fine. The place is a bit of a mess, but yeah, that's fine."

It didn't sound fine, not really. Not at all. But as far as he was concerned, nothing would change that. "I'll be right there," Don said, and he hung up and tucked the phone back in his belt. Then he leaned forward and closed his eyes, bracing himself with both arms on either side of the sink.

_I'm going to see April._

His stomach rolled sickeningly at the thought, and he took some time to steady himself, finally looking up to meet his eyes in the mirror once again. Eyes just a bit too wide, face just a shade too pale. He needed to look confident, assured. He took several slow breaths and consciously relaxed his facial muscles, simultaneously narrowing his eyes slightly.

_There, that's better._

"You can do this," he told his reflection. "It's no big deal."

The turtle in the mirror clearly wasn't convinced.

-=-=-=-=-=-


	13. Impetus and Resolve

Don never ceased to be amazed by the way one's perception of time varied according to the task. Sixteen minutes. Nine-hundred and sixty seconds. 0.2667 hours—a discrete unit of time. The same unit of time whether he was waiting for an angry customer to calm down enough so he could get a word in edgewise, or working to dismantle an explosive. An eternity or a flash, excruciating or inadequate, depending entirely on the situation.

Sixteen minutes after hanging up his phone at the lair, Don found himself perched on the fire escape outside April's apartment.

Might as well have been sixteen  _seconds_.

He took a final moment to gather himself before knocking on the window.  _Not too quickly, not to loudly_ , he cautioned himself.  _Calm. Steady. Remember, no big deal._ But his heart hammered against his plastron all the same, and when April stepped into view, his body went strangely numb, as if this wasn't real at all but some strange, dimly remembered dream.

_It's April, it's just April_ , he repeated to himself as she slid the window up. Then they were looking at each other—no pane of glass between them, but face to face, breathing of the same air, no doubt inhaling some of the very same molecules. And it struck him just how much had changed between them if simply sharing the same oxygen felt cloying and somehow exquisite at the same time, like if he inhaled too deeply he might drown.

April paused in the window, studying his face for a long moment before finally stepping back to allow him to enter. Don complied automatically, still feeling oddly detached, and it wasn't until the familiar aroma of freshly brewed coffee enveloped him that he felt in control of his body again. He just stood there at first, breathing deeply of the soothing smell and adjusting to his surroundings.

"Are you okay?" she asked abruptly.

Don started a little.  _Am I that transparent?_ But then he realized she was looking at his right hand with its bulky wrapping. "Oh, uh, yeah. It's nothing. Just cut myself when I was working."

"Do you… want me to take a look at it?"

"No," he answered rather sharply. He wasn't ready for that—gentle fingers on his hand, her body close to his…hell, he could barely hold himself together just standing in the same room as her. "I, uh, need to keep pressure on it for a while yet," he said by way of explanation.

He wondered if she knew it was an excuse.

"Okay…" she said slowly, and changed the subject. "Well, I um, put some coffee on in case you wanted some. I only have skim milk, but there's some powdered creamer in the cupboard. Or I could make tea! I have a couple of new ones I haven't had a chance to try, gyokuro and silver needle. I don't usually buy the pricey stuff, but they don't always have it in, and I remembered Leo saying he liked it. I was actually going to bring him some next time…next time I saw him. But I don't mind making some now, if you're interested." She stopped, aware by this point that she was rambling, and caught the inside of her lip in her teeth as she waited for him to answer.

It was odd, seeing her act this way—April was one of those people who rarely seemed uncomfortable, even in awkward situations, and some part of him was perversely satisfied that she was even less effective at hiding her discomfort that he was. At the moment, Don had the advantage, and he instinctively sought to hold on to it.

"No, I'm fine right now, thanks," he answered carelessly, knowing it would set her off balance.

"Are you sure? You don't want anything?"

The pleading note in her voice prompted him to look at her more closely, and he noticed that her eyes appeared red-rimmed and unusually bright, as if she'd been crying. A pang of remorse shot straight through him.  _I am such a jerk_ , he thought, disgusted with his own behavior. He'd known just from the phone call that something was wrong, and here he was making her feel worse, acting out a juvenile and completely one-sided strategy to gain the upper hand, like this was some sort of contest or power struggle. This whole meeting had been his idea in the first place, and he wasn't even trying. Besides… there was something touching in her desperate desire to please him, even in the smallest of ways.

_There's always a choice._

He sighed and gave in. "On second thought, I'll take some coffee."

She gave a relieved half-smile, and gestured for him to have a seat at the table while she poured coffee.

Don leaned his bo against the wall near the window before making his way towards the table. Before he'd gone two steps, though, he suddenly snapped to a halt, eyes narrowing as he looked beyond the kitchen into the living room. Even with the lights off, it was obvious something was wrong.

"Did you want some of that creamer?" April asked from behind him, apparently unaware that something had caught Don's eye.

Don ignored her question, instead striding forward and flicking on the lights to illuminate the nearly-horizontal bookshelf leaning heavily against the coffee table, books stacked in haphazard piles around it.

"What the hell happened here?" he demanded, but even as he uttered the words he knew the answer—he recognized his brother's handiwork.  _Raphael._ Anger like black smoke filled his chest, spreading through his limbs in acrid clouds until he felt like he would burst with the pressure.

"What happened?" he repeated huskily, wheeling to face her.

She had approached from behind him while he was taking in the wreckage, and she searched his eyes briefly. Her mouth opened as if she was about to speak, but it took a moment for any sound to come out. "We had…kind of a disagreement," she managed finally.

Don turned away with a scowl, standing a moment with his fists clenched before walking over to the downed bookshelf. He moved some of the books aside and then lifted the bookshelf from underneath, easing it upward and straining to get it vertical again without letting it slam backward into the wall.

"Thanks," she said softly once the shelf was restored to its rightful position. "I tried, but I couldn't lift it."

Once again ignoring her comment, Donatello dusted off his hands and looked back at her. "Are you hurt?" he asked sharply. He didn't think his brother would physically hurt her, not really. Not intentionally. But Raphael had lost control before.

For that matter, Don remembered, so had he.

April's eyes widened. "No! No, he wouldn't—" She swallowed, then held his gaze forthrightly. "I'm fine, Don."

" _Bullshit._  Where is he?" Don's entire body felt so tense he could barely squeeze the words out through his locked jaw, and any plans he'd had to talk things out with April were forgotten, fumigated by the suffocating miasma of anger. He didn't even need to hear more of an explanation as to what happened tonight, didn't even care—what he needed was to find Raphael.

Instead of answering, April just stared at him, her expression pained but otherwise unreadable.

"April, where!"

"I have no idea—that's the truth!" she added when she saw his eyes narrow even further. "He just took off."

Her already glossy eyes sparkled with new tears, and the sight only fueled Donatello's rage.

" _Goddamn_ him," Don growled, and he blew past April and grabbed up his bo. But just as he climbed out the window, April called out to him, and the plea in her voice cut through the bulwark of his anger.

"Don, hang on—please wait!"

He closed his eyes, gripping his bo tightly in his good hand, and turned slowly to face her.

She searched his face, her tear-filled eyes flicking back and force as she studied his, and Don braced himself for whatever she had to say.  _If she says_ _one word_ _in defense of Raphael, or to try and stop me from going after him…_

But she just took a slow breath, a few drops of moisture finally overflowing from the corners of her eyes, and said, "It's good to see you."

The words knocked the wind out of him as effectively as a fist to the gut, and his insides cinched tight at the impact. He turned away to hide his reaction, knowing that for once, he wouldn't be able to muster any outward composure as pressure caused his throat to close up tight. How could she even  _feel_  that way after the way he'd treated her these past weeks, much less say it out loud? He'd been trying so hard to guard his hand, keep his true feelings hidden, desperate to hold on to whatever imagined advantage that gave him, and here she was just laying all of her cards out on the table for anyone to see without so much as an attempt at a bluff.

Don swallowed hard, trying to regain control of himself. Her way might not win the hand, but then again, it wasn't really a game anyway.

Did Raphael know how rare she was? Did he recognize the strength she had even though it didn't lie in physical power or the ability to intimidate? Could Raphael even  _fathom_  such a thing?

Donatello's body flooded with purpose as cold and unyielding as steel, infusing his anger with a resolve that hadn't been there before. He knew what he had to do. First he was going to find Raphael. Then he was going to give him a little lecture on the proper way to treat someone like April.

He rather hoped it would take more than words for the lesson to sink in.

Finally he turned back to April, his face a mask of calm. "It's good to see you, too," he said, and then he was gone.

-=-=-=-=-=-


	14. Stones from a Cliff

Donatello was a planner. Whenever possible, he liked to think things through, consider all of the possible consequences of any given action, and speculate on what could go wrong and how he would respond if it did. It wasn't that he expected to think of  _everything_ —more often than not, things went completely sideways, and that didn't really faze him. It was more an exercise than anything else, a way of keeping his mind sharp and his thoughts focused.

But tonight was different. The surge of anger he'd felt upon leaving April's was on slow-drip now, but it trickled steadily through his veins, infusing him with a single purpose—finding Raphael. Beyond that, everything was blurry, obscured, like he was racing through a blizzard. He could see no farther than the object immediately in front of him, and only when he reached it would the next one be unveiled.

First, he had to find his brother.

And this time, there were no technological short cuts to be had. Even the tracking devices Don had painstakingly installed in every shell cell were useless, because Raph had left his phone at April's—not that Raph having his phone on him was any guarantee that Don could have traced him anyway. In spite of his insistence that he'd installed the transmitters strictly for safety reasons, Raphael often disabled his, saying he didn't need Big Brother looking over his shoulder every second. Don had never asked if he was being literal, or making an unexpected allusion to Orwell.

Then again, perhaps he was just more comfortable believing Raph didn't read the same books he did.

Even without the aid of technology, though, Don's search wasn't random. If the state of April's apartment was any indication, Raphael had left in a foul mood, and Don would bet his bo staff he'd gone in search of an unlucky hoodlum to take it out on. Which meant he'd probably headed straight for Nightwatcher territory.

As Don made his way there, it frightened him a little that he finally understood the lure of such an environment, the feeling that must have drawn his brother to the more dangerous parts of town night after night. Was this what Raph felt all the time, this ball of malignant energy fixed like a power cell in his chest, charged and screaming for release? Like if he didn't let it out in short bursts of sweat and blood, blows and whirling weapons, he would explode with the pressure of it. The intensity, the violence of what he was feeling was alien to Don, but instead of trying to quell it, he channeled the power it gave him, using it to fuel his search as he leapt, grim-faced, from rooftop to rooftop, all of his senses straining to locate the target he sought—the red bull's eye located somewhere in the bowels of the city.

He was so intent on his search that a vibration from his shell cell caused him to mis-time a jump, and only his ninja agility and a good dose of luck saved him from serious injury. Once he'd recovered from his less-than graceful landing, Don fumbled to pull the phone out of his belt with his injured hand, but replaced it without answering when he saw the name on the display.  _Leo_. His brother hated it when Don screened his calls, but he didn't have time for Leonardo right now. The leader would have to settle for leaving a voice mail if he really wanted to tell him something, no matter how much he hated it.

Don ignored it again when the phone vibrated five minutes later as he was scaling yet another fire escape, but by the third attempt (Leonardo  _again_ ) he knew he had to answer. His older brother wasn't the type to keep pestering if he didn't get through—not unless it was something important. He paused on a ledge with a decent view of the streets below, but even as he answered the phone his attention was directed elsewhere, his muscles fairly quivering in anticipation as his eyes tried to turn every shadow into the crouched form of a turtle.

"Yeah, what is it?" he answered distractedly, but the voice that responded snapped his attention immediately back to the phone call.

_"Donny? About time! Where are you? Did Raph reach you? Is everything okay?"_

" _Mikey?_  What are you talking about? And why are you calling from Leo's phone?"

_"I gave mine to Raph! He was here a while ago looking for you—I didn't even know you were gone! When we figured out you weren't here, he asked for my phone, and uh, it didn't seem like the best idea to refuse him. I kinda like my face the way it is."_

Don's hand tightened on the phone. "Raph was  _there_? Looking for  _me_?"

_"Yeah dude, and he seemed pretty worked up over something. So he hasn't tried to call you?"_

"No, he hasn't." Don's brain was working furiously, trying to make some sense of this. It hadn't even occurred to him that Raphael might be seeking  _him_  out. The only way he would've known that Don was looking for him was if he'd talked to April, yet if that was the case, why wouldn't he have his own phone? And more curiously still, once he had Mike's phone, why wouldn't he use it to call?

"How long ago was he there?" Don asked.

_"Maybe fifteen minutes ago; I tried calling before, but it kept going to voice mail. What's going on? Are you sure you're okay?"_

"Yeah… everything's fine," he said in a voice that belied his pounding heart.

Raphael had gone to the lair looking for him, and now he had Mike's phone but he wasn't using it to call. There was only one explanation that made sense. Raphael had never had any intention of  _calling_  Don.

If mutant turtles had hair, Donatello's would have been standing on end, but instead he felt only a prickling wave of foreboding that made him physically shudder.

_He's tracking me._

Don crouched slightly and turned around, his eyes probing the murky shadows of the rooftop, but he didn't see anyone. Yet.

_"Don? Are you still there?"_

"Yeah, I'm here," Don answered calmly, "but I'm gonna have to let you go, Mike. I'm kind of… in the middle of something." Then he ended the call without waiting for a reply.

Don stood staring at the phone, heart pounding, and slowly his fingers curled around it. This was it, then. He took a deep breath and switched over to tracking mode, and within a minute the device had located "Michelangelo" roughly 840 meters (nothing but the metric system for him, thank you very much) to the northeast. He slid his bo securely into the back of his belt, and set about closing the gap between their respective symbols on the screen. As he drew closer to the dot on the display that represented his brother, his mind kept on returning to the way April had looked when he was at her apartment—eyes shining brightly through the pale oval of her face, trying so hard to be friendly even though she was obviously distraught, and a deluge of fresh cold anger washed through him like runoff from melted snow.

Whatever had upset April, Raphael was the cause of it, and that was intolerable,  _unacceptable_  to him. He ran faster, unconcerned with stealth as he leapt over alleys and scaled buildings. Even though he knew it might be possible to take Raphael by surprise, especially considering his brother probably wasn't aware that Don was also trying to find  _him_ , he didn't slow down. He had no intention of initiating a surprise attack. Whatever happened tonight, he wanted his brother to be ready for him.

When the display on his phone indicated he was within fifty meters of Raph, Donatello finally slowed, inspecting the rooftop he was on as he greedily sucked in oxygen. The roof was spacious and relatively open, with few substantial shadows and a minimal amount of debris. It would do. He closed the phone and tucked it in his belt, but he didn't disable the transmitter. Then he strode out into the open and halted. There was no cover here, nowhere to hide. Don slowly withdrew his bo, spinning it briefly, and then held it loosely at his side. His heart was thudding against his plastron, but his mind was clear, his palms dry. He was ready for this. More than ready—he was hungry for it.

As the minutes ticked by, Don stood unmoving except for minimal turns of his head to expand his peripheral vision. He wasn't worried about the possibility of Raph sneaking up on  _him_ —he didn't know his brother's purpose was in seeking him out tonight, but he was confident that any approach would be head-on. At least he could always count on Raphael for that.

Sure enough, when the turtle in red made his appearance, it was front and center. One moment Don was staring at a vacant ledge on the roof, and the blink of an eye later, his brother was there—as if he'd simply materialized from a Transmat. Raphael was looking right at him, his eyes gleaming as his mask tails flicked lightly in the breeze, but all he did was rise slowly to an upright position.

Don's hand tightened on his bo.

Both remained unmoving for several long moments, silently sizing each other up, and Don felt instinctively that if he chose to attack right now, Raphael would meet him halfway. Perhaps he even wanted to fight as badly as Don did. It wasn't anything he could see so much as something he  _felt_ , a message exchanged through sheer energy, the same way a herd of zebra knew the precise moment a lion striding calmly through their midst switched to hunting mode.

But as much as he wanted to, Don didn't make a move. Not yet. This wasn't like last time, when he'd been so overwhelmed with pain and rage that he hadn't been aware of what he was doing. This time he was in control. This time, if he attacked, it would be a conscious choice.

Raphael was the first to break the silence. "We gotta talk," he stated, his voice scraping like gravel across the rooftop.

Don snorted a little, but otherwise gave no response. Raphael, the hothead, trying to be civil? That was rich.

His brother studied him keenly, probably trying to gauge the meaning of Don's snort, but after several moments he descended smoothly from the ledge and stood facing Don from some distance away. Raph made no move to draw his weapons, but by the way he held his arms loosely at his sides, fingers open and slightly curled, Don was sure he was ready to do so at any time.

"I know you hate that me an' April are together," Raph continued evenly. "I know you think we ain't right for each other, but I got news for you." He paused, looking Don straight in the eye, and his fingers twitched slightly at his side. "I. Don't. Give. A  _fuck._  Whether you like it or not."

Don gave a humorless laugh. "Very eloquent, as usual. All that time tracking me, and that's the best you could come up with? Maybe the lowlife criminals you beat up on the streets are intimidated by your superfluous use of obscenities, but I've been over it since we were ten years old."

The red-masked turtle's shoulders stiffened, but he countered smoothly. "At least I don't gotta compose a twenty-minute speech to get the message across, you pretentious prick."

Don bristled. "Okay, then I'll get right to the point.  _You_  are an  _asshole_. You're right—I have no idea what April sees in you, but you sure as hell don't deserve her!" He didn't even know where the words were coming from. Now that he'd found his brother, he still had no better idea of what came next, and the words were just tumbling out of him completely unfiltered, with no thought for where this exchange would lead.

"Deserve her? You think you're tellin' me something I don't already  _know_?! Think I don't wake up every  _goddamn day_  telling myself that same thing?"

"Well you've got some way of showing it! Hey, I know, instead of telling her that, why don't you TRASH HER APARTMENT AND TAKE OFF! Yeah, bravo, real Neanderthal of you. You're all bullshit, you know that?"

Raph's eyes narrowed until they were merely slits in his red mask. "You don't have the first clue about the way things are between us," he said, his voice marked by a low intensity that was somehow more intimidating than the high-volume responses Don was used to.

"I know enough!" Don shot back, taking half a step forward, fingers tightening on his bo until he could feel the pattern of the wood grain beneath his fingers. "I know she shouldn't have to shed  _one single tear_  over you!"

"Oh yeah? Wanna know how often she's cried cuz  _you_  won't even answer her phone calls? You're such a fucking hypocrite! All ready to run to her rescue now that I'm the bad guy, but where were ya when all she needed was for you to PICK UP THE GODDAMN PHONE?!"

"Hey! I'm not the one who—"

"Oh shut the fuck UP, Don!" Raph shouted, his hands curling into fists as he took a step forward himself. "I'm so done with this shit! I'm done feeling guilty and waiting for you to give a signal so I can grovel and lick your feet and beg your forgiveness!"

"My forgiveness?" Don shifted his stance subtly, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet as he simultaneously changed grips on his bo. "Whether or not I'll  _forgive_  you isn't what you should be worried about."

Raph didn't miss the challenge. In a motion almost too fast for the eye to see, he had his own weapons drawn. "Oh yeah, now we're gettin' somewhere—bring it on!" he said, his mouth curling faintly in a dark sneer. "She said I didn't have to choose, but it's too late for that. I ain't giving her up—not for you, not for anyone." He motioned with his sai, inviting Don to attack.

_Choose?_  Donatello furrowed his brows in puzzlement, though he remained in all other ways poised for battle. "What the—what the hell are you  _talking_  about?"

"I had the chance to end it tonight," Raphael said as he began to circle. "Had the chance to look her in the eyes, and tell her it was over… but I couldn't do it. An' if that means you're gonna hate me for the rest a' my life, guess I'll just hafta learn to live with that."

"You, you were going to  _break up_  with her? Because of  _me_?" he asked incredulously as he pivoted to match his brother's circling.

Raph's only response was to look him steadily in the eyes, but it was answer enough.

Don could only sputter for a moment, too thrown by the utter stupidity of what he was hearing to even formulate a response. "What—why would you—how could you—ARE YOU A COMPLETE MORON?" he managed finally. " _Break up_  with her? Did you really think—do you even KNOW how lucky you are to have someone like April? Do you have ANY FUCKING CLUE what I would give if—" He stopped himself just in time, horrified at what he'd been about to say, but it was too late to cover it up.

_If she'd picked me._

And damn it, he thought he'd dealt with this, thought he'd gotten past it, but here it was bubbling out of him like snot from a baby, and in front of the very turtle he most wanted to hide it from. He couldn't bear to meet his brother's eyes, couldn't bear to see the triumph he was sure to find there—or worse, the pity. So he did the only thing he could think to do in the wake of such a telling show of vulnerability. Before Raph could respond, he attacked.

Don drove forward, wielding his bo so swiftly and fiercely (in spite of his bandaged hand), that at first Raphael could do little but dodge or deflect, even retreating a little in the face of such an onslaught. Donatello pressed forward and managed to score a couple of glancing blows, each contact bringing with it a hot rush of satisfaction, but before he could make any real headway, Raph managed to snag the upper portion of the staff between the prongs of one sai. Don expected his brother to use his newly-won leverage to try and disarm him, but instead Raphael reached out boldly with his other hand and grabbed hold of the staff farther down, bracing his arms to lock the weapon in an essentially two-handed grip.

_What the hell does he think he's doing?_  It was a stupid move on Raph's part, pointless and completely ineffective. A hold like that was child's play to break, and Raphael was experienced enough to know that. Don bared his teeth and prepared to free his weapon,  _would_  have freed it in a matter of moments no matter how strong his brother was, but for a split second before he made his move, his eyes connected with Raph's, and Don just…froze, right where he was, like someone had hit a button and put the fight on pause. There they were, bo staff braced diagonally between them, teeth gritted and veins standing out under taught skin, tensed for battle… and yet Don couldn't move. Raph's eyes were locked on his, riveting, demanding rather than requesting his attention.

"I know," said Raphael with a low calm that didn't fit the situation they found themselves in. He nodded slightly to emphasize the words, eyes boring into Don's. "I know how lucky I am."

Don stared back at him, and slowly his eyes widened as understanding reached him at last.

_My god, he's in love with her_.

The realization was like smashing headlong into a brick wall—a moment of blinding white impact, a jolt felt through every bone and sinew of his body, and a wave of nausea so intense he almost passed out. For the moment all he could do was stand and try to get his bearings, try to  _breathe_. It wasn't like he'd thought Raph didn't care about her at all, or that he was using her… more that he'd just seized an opportunity when it presented itself. After all, who would turn her down? Especially when there were no other prospects. But he'd never, ever, EVER considered the possibility that Raphael might be  _in love_  with her.

Or maybe he just hadn't  _wanted_ to consider it.

Suddenly all of the fight went out of him as his chest went cold, like it had sprung a leak and was filling with ice water. Raphael must have noticed the difference, because he loosened his hold on the bo staff and kept on talking. "I know I don't deserve her—I know I ain't as smart as her, I ain't patient enough, I ain't good at saying how I feel." He paused, and his voice became even softer as he continued to meet Don's eyes. "But by some miracle, she still wants me. An' I dare you to try and convince me you wouldn't a' done the same thing in my place."

Don stared at him and slowly lowered his weapon. Raph released his hold altogether and stepped back a little, but he remained tense, apparently not convinced Don wouldn't just fly at him. But he needn't have worried. Don's eyes were opened, staring, but he wasn't even aware of his brother anymore. He was focused deep within himself.

"I… I would've done the same thing," he said out loud. And he knew it to be true, as surely as he knew Windows Vista sucked. He would have cast aside his friends, hidden from his brothers, put himself and everyone else through hell for the chance to be with her.

April was worth all of that, and more. Could he really blame Raph for reaching the same conclusion?

Don blinked, eyes sliding back into focus, and for the first time in weeks the sight of his brother didn't incite anything like scorn or hostility. In its place was only a spreading numbness. He took a dazed step backward, then another, and before he knew it he felt the back of his leg hit the raised concrete ledge a short distance behind him. He sat down, stiffly and tiredly, like an old man.

And for a while he stayed that way, breathing in and out, his mind sputtering and blank, like an engine that just wouldn't start. But eventually his stalled brain shuddered and jolted forward, and as his thoughts gained momentum, things began clicking into place.

"It was never about me at all, was it," Don croaked. He kept his eyes down, noticing vaguely that there was blood soaking through the bandage on his hand. The cut must have opened up again sometime during the fight.

Funny, he knew it should hurt, but he couldn't feel a thing.

"Wh-what?" Raph stammered, all of the former confidence gone from his voice.

Don didn't look up.

"This whole time, I've been thinking that I was the center of everything that happened—the main character. Some sort of, of tormented hero or something," he said in a hoarse monotone. Numb. No feeling at all. "But I was just an incidental, wasn't I? A side plot. It was about you and April all along." He lifted his eyes. "I just couldn't see it."

Raphael was in the same spot, standing in virtually the same position Don had last seen him, but though he still held his weapons, all of the intensity was gone. Before, his posture had projected readiness, every muscle tensed for action. But right now he just looked awkward and extremely uncomfortable, arms held stiffly down at his sides, holding his sai like he'd picked them up and couldn't remember what they were for. He stared back at Don, eyes troubled and brows pinched with concern. "It, it wasn't like that," he said. "We never—"

"I know," Don interrupted. "I know you didn't see it like that, that's not what I mean. I—" He paused, clenching his jaw as he tried to put words to this latest dizzying rupture in the terra firma of his world. "I mean, you, you fell for each other. That was it. Everything else that happened…it was unintentional. Like stones getting knocked off a cliff."  _Only I just happened to be one of the stones._

He looked back up at his brother, who studied his face for a long moment before simply nodding. Don swallowed and dropped his eyes again. There wasn't anything more he could say, really. He hadn't won or lost. He was simply collateral damage.

Don kept his eyes cast downward, absently studying the spreading bloom of blood across his bandaged hand. A short time later he heard his brother approach the ledge and sit down several meters away, but Don didn't acknowledge him.

"I'm sorry," Raph said eventually, his voice a gruff whisper that was all but lost in the erratic wind.

Don felt rather than saw Raphael's eyes on him, settling briefly before darting away again, like a dragonfly on a puddle. "For what?" Don asked hollowly. "Sorry that she picked you instead of me?" When there was no answer he turned his head to look at Raphael, and found his brother's eyes already locked on him.

"No," Raph replied in a measured voice. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you right away."

The deliberation with which Raphael had spoken told Don just as much as the words themselves. Raph wasn't just saying what he was sorry  _for_ … he was letting him know as gently as possible that it was the only thing he was going to apologize for.

Don was surprised to realize he wouldn't want it any other way.

_He doesn't regret it—any of it. And neither would I._

A warm prickling in his throat signaled an awakening of his frozen emotions, and he looked down and turned his face away, blinking rapidly in an effort to keep unwelcome tears at bay.  _Please, no no, not in front of Raph…just breathe, in and out…_

But it was no use, and when he realized he wasn't going to be completely successful holding everything in, he abruptly swung his legs over the ledge and turned so he was facing the other way, out towards the endless matrix of the city. Even then, though he couldn't stop the tears from coming, he didn't let go completely.  _I've done this already, haven't I?_ he thought angrily, swallowing down the lump in his throat.  _I've dealt with it. So why am I getting so upset?_

Things had been getting easier, lately. The aching emptiness that had resided in his chest since he learned about Raph and April had begun to fade a little in the preceding weeks, and at times, especially when he was busy getting his new place ready, he even forgot all about it. But always some unexpected reminder would bring it all back, forcing him to draw a quick, shallow breath as his insides twisted with the knowledge that April didn't love him, would  _never_  love him the way he'd hoped, the way he'd loved her.

It was getting easier…but right now, the pain felt almost as fresh as that first night, when April had come to talk to him at Leatherhead's and unintentionally delivered the killing blow to his already wounded heart.

Don turned into the wind and continued to stare out at the city, his face turning cold as the tears streaked across his skin evaporated in the sharp air. Yet he refused to wipe the moisture away, knowing it would confirm beyond a doubt that he was crying. If Raph had said anything to him, anything at all, he was sure he would've broken down completely, and he would've hated himself for it. But the other turtle didn't utter a word, and after several minutes had passed, Don began to relax. Apparently, his brother wasn't going to say anything. And when he thought about it, he didn't know why that should surprise him. It was a quality that Don had often found infuriating in his brother, this ability to let things pass without words, though at other times, like when he was working, it had suited him quite well.

_"Hey, want a hand?"_

_Don slid out from underneath the raised battle shell and squinted up at Raph, unused to the light after so much time spent under the shadow of the vehicle._

_"Having trouble sleeping again?" Don guessed. It wasn't uncommon for Raph to offer his assistance late at night if Don happened to be working, and he had to admit he rather enjoyed the company. Raphael's company, in particular, because once Don told him what he wanted, he was basically self-sufficient in the shop._

_Raph shrugged. "Haven't exactly tried yet—just don't feel tired, so I figured I might as well make myself useful."_

_"Sure, that'd be great," Don answered. He hadn't been sleeping so well himself, lately. "I was just doing a routine inspection on the Battle Shell, and I noticed one of the brackets on the exhaust system needed to be replaced. I haven't so much as looked under the hood yet, if you want to start there."_

_"No sweat, I got it," Raph said easily, and he popped the hood and went to work._

_That was another nice thing about working with Raphael—although they sometimes talked as they worked, mostly casual banter, he didn't expect Don to uphold a conversation if he was working on something that took a bit more focus. Tonight, however, the work was rather routine—which was kind of the point, because Don had a lot weighing on his mind. After attaching a new bracket and making sure the exhaust system was aligned and snug, he re-emerged from underneath the vehicle, wiped his hand on a rag, and went to get a drink of water from the bottle sitting off to the side._

_"How's it look?" he called to Raph, who was standing on a stool and leaning over the engine._

_"Not too bad. Battery's gettin' some corrosion at the terminals; we got any baking soda around in here?"_

_"In the kitchen, I think. I'll get it," Don said, and when he returned a couple of minutes later he handed Raph the box of baking soda and his water bottle. Raph took them both with a grunt of thanks and began mixing the powder and the liquid at the sites of corrosion._

_Don watched the mixture bubble and foam at the application sites, debating whether or not to speak what was on his mind, but finally the desire to commiserate with someone won out. "Can you believe Leo's leaving in just a few months?" he said quietly._

_Raph grunted noncommittally as he paused to exchange the baking soda and water bottle for a rag and the stiff-bristled brush he'd set nearby._

_"It just… seems so weird, you know? I mean, I know he was gone for a few months back when he… when he went to train with the Ancient One, but an entire year? I just can't wrap my brain around it."_

_Not so much as a noise from Raph this time, other than the abrasive sound of the scrub brush on the battery._

_Don let out a disappointed breath. Was he the only one having a hard time with this? Maybe Raphael and Leo hadn't always gotten along, but could Raph really be this blasé about his upcoming departure? He tried again._

_"I've been thinking of maybe…looking for a job, or something. Maybe doing something different to keep myself busy so things won't seem so weird without him."_

_When there was no answer—big surprise there—Don shifted his weight a little and sighed. "Raph? How can you be so okay with this?" he asked, unable to keep the note of frustration out of his voice._

_Raphael straightened slowly and turned to stare at him, raising one eye ridge slightly. "Okay with this?"_

_"Yeah. I mean, don't you have anything to say about it?"_

_"What the fuck you want me to say, Don?!" Raph exploded, balling up the rag and hurling it onto a pile of dirty towels off to the side. "It's gonna suck, okay? Go get yerself a job—get ten jobs, I don't fucking care! But it's still gonna suck. An' talking about it ain't gonna change that."_

_Don stared at him. "No…no, I guess not," he said softly._

_Raph sighed and relaxed slightly, causing his shoulders to fall—Mike always said he was "deflating" when he did this, and it was a good indicator that his anger had cooled somewhat. "Look, let's just…keep working," he said, his tone almost apologetic. Raph glanced at the exposed engine and then back to Don. "What else needs to be done? This thing due for an oil change?"_

_"Yeah…I think so," Don answered slowly. "Been a couple months, at least."_

_Raph nodded. "Okay, I'll get the stuff." He walked past Don towards the crude shelves standing against the wall, touching his brother's shoulder briefly as he went by._

_This time, Don didn't need to hear the words._

That was the last time Raph had come by the shop to offer his help. Two days later, Leonardo had asked Don to serve as interim leader while he was gone—and Raphael started looking for other things to do when he couldn't sleep.

Don thought of the two years that followed as the Lost Years, capitalized just like that in his head, like the Ice Age, or the Industrial Revolution. Not just because he and Raph became more like strangers or adversaries than brothers, or because they gradually lost contact with Leonardo, but because it felt like they were all just wandering aimlessly, as if things could exist in some sort of stasis until Leo got back. They just shuffled along, day after day, trying to keep themselves busy and waiting for something to happen that would make it okay for them to move forward with a purpose once more. But in spite of their best efforts, they inevitably  _did_  move forward, and by the time Leo returned, no one was at all sure what the "something" was that they'd been waiting for.

Even after their oldest brother returned, Don had doubted he and Raph would ever be able to go back to the way things were, but it turned out to be immaterial. A refurbished engine never ran exactly the way it had before—the important thing was that it functioned.

Don leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and drew a deep if somewhat shaky breath. Memories came to him in pulses like the winking lights of jets over the skyscrapers, and he held each one gently before letting it fall away. April throwing her arms around him and only him after one of his ideas got them all out of yet another tight spot; April kissing him spontaneously on the cheek when he couldn't hide his disappointment that she wouldn't be staying at the lair much longer, her lips brushing his skin so lightly he would have thought he'd imagined it if it weren't for the moisture left behind; April squeezed in close beside him in front of the computer, her knee just bumping his as she frowned at the screen, and he held his breath, hoping that if he remained very still, they could stay that way indefinitely. He'd known even then that all of the variables were on  _his_  side of the equation, that she had nothing more than friendship in mind, but still he'd replayed them over and over in his head, savoring them, hoarding them as a troll did the treasure it would never spend.

But sitting here right now, he was painfully aware that as much as recent events had disrupted his own personal equilibrium, in reality, not much had changed. So it was his brother now instead of Casey—that didn't change the fact that April was never in love with  _him_. Didn't change the fact that she wanted to be his friend.

And finally, he knew why he was so emotional right now, in spite of the fact that nearly a month had gone by. It would be impossible to heal fully until he acknowledged the truth of the situation—April and Raphael loved each other. Any blame he cast on one party belonged equally to the other; it had just been more comfortable for him to direct all of his anger towards Raphael.

Don wiped his face as discreetly as possible, and then breathed deeply, feeling calmer now. He risked glance at Raph, who was still facing the opposite way, towards the building roof, and Don understood that sometimes the only thing you could do was shuffle along, and trust that in doing so, you'd find yourself moving forward.

"Hey…Raph?" He was pleased to find that his voice actually sounded somewhat steady.

Wordlessly his brother swung his legs around, reversing his position until he was facing the same way as Don. "Yeah," he said, tactfully keeping his eyes fixed forward.

"I'm sorry, too," Don said finally, his eyes tracing the pathways of a dozen of different jets as they trudged across the dome of the sky. From what he could see of Raph out of the corner of his eye, his brother seemed just as lost in the cityscape. "If I had really thought about things, or bothered to try and talk to you, to really understand, things might have been different. But… I think I  _wanted_  to blame you. I just…" He faltered, and swallowed hard. "It just…"  _It just hurt so much._

Raphael kept his eyes trained forward. "I know," he said gently.

_No, you don't—you couldn't,_ Don thought, but it lacked the bitterness that had been so prevalent of late. The bile black cloud that had been hovering over him for some time had already begun to dissipate, and though it would take some time for it to disappear completely, already he felt lighter. He could do this…just keep moving forward.

"Well then…I guess there's only one thing left to say," Don concluded.

Raph glanced at him questioningly.

"If you  _ever_  do anything to hurt her, ever again, it doesn't matter where you go, I will personally hunt you down, and kick your ass."

The words sounded corny even in his head, and when Don turned to look at Raph, he half expected him to laugh in his face. But his brother surprised him once again, regarding him seriously before giving the barest of nods. "Fair enough," he said, and for a moment there was no rushing of traffic, no screaming of distant sirens, or even an echo of voices from the more nocturnal residents of the city. There was only the cold prickle of concrete underneath his legs as a world of understanding passed between them.

Don was the first to look away, and they sat for a while then, in comfortable if not companionable silence, and watched the city that never slept toil on below them.

At length, Raphael cleared his throat tentatively, like the first bird piping up after a storm. "So… we okay now?" he asked.

Donatello didn't answer immediately.

"No," he said matter-of-factly, shaking his head. Then he shrugged. "But we will be." He glanced to the right, and although the red-masked turtle seemed to accept his words, it was clear from the tension in his shoulders that he was still apprehensive about something. "What?" Don prompted. He figured they might as well get everything out right now.

Raph started a little, apparently surprised, even after all this time, that his brothers could read him so well. His eyes touched on Don before darting away again, and he fidgeted slightly. "What about this whole…movin' out thing?"

"What about it?" Don asked slowly.

"That still, uh… that still the plan?"

This time Raph didn't look at him, didn't so much as move—in fact, he was so completely still as he waited for an answer that he could have passed for a gargoyle fixed to the ledge of the building, and Don understood that this was the closest his brother would ever come to asking him not to go.

"Yeah, it is," Don answered reflectively. "That part, that was never about you. Really," he added in response to a dubious look from Raph. Then he surprised himself by blurting out, "It's, it's not even that I  _want_  to go, really." Which was completely true, but he hadn't dared admit it to any other members of his family. "At least, not in the sense that I'm unhappy living at the lair. I'm content, for the most part. Maybe too content. And I just…don't want to look back on my life and wonder what else I could have done, if I'd had the guts to something different."

He shut up then, already chastising himself for trying to explain all of this to Raph, of all turtles. He didn't even know where the words had come from—but he knew they were the most he'd spoken to his brother in a very long time.

"You're the opposite a' me, then," Raph answered quietly as he fingered the creases in his knee pad.

Don looked at him sharply, unsure of what part Raphael was referring to. "How so?"

"All the times I wanted to leave, all the times I almost  _did_  leave…it was the stayin' part that was hard."

The words hung in the air between them for a moment before the wind whisked them away, and Don felt his perception of his brother shift a little. In his mind he was standing once again outside of Raphael's bedroom, holding his breath as he waited for some sign that his brother was inside, wondering if today would be the day he found the room empty. He hated those moments, hated that he felt the need to spy, hated that he had stopped asking Raph where he went at night, hated that, in spite of the words laced with venom he'd spit at his brother, he couldn't stop caring, no matter how much he wanted to. Most of all he hated that each day, as much as he hoped Raphael was there in his room, a small but undeniable part of him hoped that he wasn't.

He'd wondered what kept his brother coming home day after day when by all appearances, he wanted nothing to do with any of his family members. He'd figured maybe it was loyalty to Splinter, or fear that he'd leave, only to have Leo come home a day later.

He'd never once considered it might have anything to do with courage.

"You meant it, didn't you," Don said quietly. "You'd choose her. Over any of us."

If Raph was thrown off by the sudden deviation in topic, he didn't show it. "If I had to," he answered simply.

"Then… what the hell are you still doing here?"

Raphael snapped his head around to look at him, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What—?"

"GO TO HER!" Don exploded, throwing one hand out in the general direction of April's apartment. "God's sake, haul shell to her place and pray she still wants you!" And before Raph could react, Don prodded him sharply in the shoulder with his bo.

His brother pulled back in surprise, anger flashing briefly in his eyes at the rough treatment, and Don jabbed him again, this time in the thigh. "Go!"

Raphael pulled his legs under him until he was in a crouch, moving swiftly out of reach of Don's bo, but still he didn't leave. He just stared, eventually deflating as the spark of anger cooled into understanding, and Don almost smiled at the familiarity of it. Almost.

Raphael's face tightened in resolve, and he turned to leave. But before he could go, Don called out to him once more.

"Raph!"

The turtle turned expectantly.

"Tell April…" He faltered, now unsure as to what message to give. Tell her it was okay? Tell her they could still be friends? He didn't know if either of those things were true. What, then?

Raphael waited.

"Tell her… tell her I'll call her," Don said finally. He couldn't promise anything, but he could at least give it a chance.

Raphael gave a slight nod, his eyes softening almost imperceptibly before he turned again and moved off at a swift pace. He didn't look back.

Don's heart constricted painfully as he watched his brother go, but he felt an unexpected sense of relief as well, as if instead of collapsing with the pressure, his heart was merely changing shape, like squeezing an under-filled water balloon. Not lesser, just different.

But then, that was the nature of things, wasn't it? Either burst from the pressure, or find a way to adjust to it. It seemed so simple from where he was now, Don couldn't quite understand why it had taken him so long to get there.

It was a simple matter of physics, after all.

-=-=-=-=-=-


	15. Leaps of Faith

When Raphael at last arrived at April's window, slightly sweaty and still panting from his near record-speed run over, it wasn't the fact that the lights were on inside the apartment that startled him. He'd expected her to be awake, in spite of the lateness of the hour. What surprised him was the noise coming from inside.

_What the hell is she doing?_

But of course, he knew the answer to that. She was vacuuming. What really puzzled him was why she was doing it  _now._

April wasn't in view at the moment, but the window was cracked open a few inches—that was encouraging, at least. If it had been closed and locked, Raph would have taken it as a sign that he wasn't welcome, and although it wouldn't have been enough to put him off, it would have made him even more apprehensive than he already was. Even without the hard run, he was nervous enough to be sweating. There had been plenty of time for his imagination to run wild on his way over, and if he thought about things from her perspective, there were painfully few reasons for her to give him another chance. But damned if he was gonna give up without trying.

Raph had meant every word he'd said to Donatello—he had no intention of letting her go, and if April felt the need to punish him for a while, it was far less than he deserved. After all, he'd been punishing her, and frankly his entire family, for things they weren't even responsible for.

He shifted slightly, debating whether he should just let himself in, but in the end he decided it was better to play it safe and wait to be invited. He didn't want to screw things up any more than they already were. Hell, he figured he'd be lucky just to get the chance to  _apologize_  before she sent him away. But if she wouldn't hear him out tonight, he'd just come back tomorrow. And the next day, and the next, for as long as it took until she was ready to listen.

He peered through the window, trying to gauge where she was by the sound of the vacuum, and concluded that she was probably in the bedroom. Since there was no way she'd be able to hear him knocking, and he didn't want to call her on Mikey's phone, he had little choice but to wait for her to return to the vicinity of the kitchen. At least it would give him a chance to cool down a little from his run.

After what felt like an eternity, he heard the vacuum switch off, and a short time later April came into sight dressed in athletic pants and a long-sleeved shirt with a faded bandanna tied around her hair. She was carrying a bucket and a mop—apparently the middle of the night was the perfect time for a full-blown cleaning spree. As she approached the kitchen, Raphael took a deep breath and knocked on the window. April glanced over at the sound, but she didn't veer from her course. Instead she proceeded into the kitchen, set the mop and bucket down, and retrieved something out of a drawer before heading back to the window. As she raised the frame, Raph steeled himself up for whatever was in store for him, his heart beating out a staccato rhythm in his chest.

As soon as the window was open, before Raphael even had a  _chance_  to say anything, April coolly thrust out her hand in front of him. He looked down from her face to see that she was holding his shell cell, and he accepted it automatically, too dumb-struck to ask any questions. Then his eyes rose again, scrutinizing her face for a clue, but it was oddly expressionless.

"Uh, thanks," he said awkwardly. Getting his phone back had been the last thing on his mind.

She didn't say a word—didn't invite him in, or ask what happened or why he was here, didn't tell him to jump off a building and go to hell. She just looked at him, cool and impassive. Her face, and especially her eyes, were usually very expressive, but tonight he didn't have the first clue what she was thinking, and his insides cinched even tighter. If he couldn't gauge her mood, then he had no idea what to do to make things right.

"Is it, um… can I come in?" he asked, finally realizing that no invitation would be forthcoming.

She stared at him a second longer, then stepped back without a word, crossing her arms in front of her.

_Guess I'll have to take that as a yes_ , he thought, and in a moment he stood face to face with her, though he still had no better clue what she was thinking. The turtle fidgeted a little, his stomach becoming increasingly unsettled, but at least he knew where to start. That was a no-brainer, even for him.

"I'm sorry," Raphael said, meeting her eyes, and he hoped she could tell just how much he meant it.

The only change in her demeanor was a slight raise of the eyebrows. Beyond that, nothing.

He cleared his throat slightly, unsure how to proceed. "Look, you have every right to be pissed…"

"I'm not mad."

_Yeah, right,_  he thought. But when he studied her more carefully, he couldn't find spark of anger in her green eyes—or a glimmer of affection. In fact, he didn't see any emotion at all, and for the first time, real, true doubt rose in him, twisting his insides with fear of a kind he'd never known. He'd been prepared for anger, prepared for initial refusal of his attempts to make amends, but this, this  _blankness_...he didn't know what it meant, and it scared the shit out of him. What if…what if she didn't care that he was sorry? Didn't care how many days or weeks or months he begged her forgiveness?

What if he'd already broken what he now knew he'd give anything for?

_No. No no no no no, I won't let it happen._ He swallowed past the dry lump of panic in his throat and somehow found the moisture to speak. "April…I want to try and make this work," he said, his voice gruff with emotion as he echoed her own words from earlier that night.

She looked steadily back at him, and lifted her chin just a little. "So try, then."

Raph knew a challenge when he heard one—it wasn't exactly the response he'd been hoping for, but he seized onto her words like a drowning man to a lifeline. At least it wasn't an outright dismissal. Trouble was…he had no idea how to respond. Was she looking for some sort of grand gesture here? An explanation for his behavior? A declaration of his undying commitment to her? She was watching him expectantly, just standing there looking aloof and so goddamn gorgeous it made his chest ache, and he was so afraid of saying the wrong thing, so afraid of losing her that he did something even worse.

He said nothing.

She waited patiently for him to speak, but when the silence stretched on she gave a barely audible sigh and let her arms fall to her sides. "Okay, well thanks for stopping by, but I have things to do." The she turned and began walking back toward the kitchen.

_Oh fuck, FUCK, what have I done?_ "April, wait! Just, just hang on a sec!"

She paused and looked over her shoulder at him. Was it his imagination, or did her eyes look a bit glossy?

He took a small step forward. "I, uh...I'll…"  _I'll do whatever it takes, whatever I gotta do to fix this, just tell me what it is!_  In his desperation he almost spoke these things out loud, but as she turned once again to face him, looking expectant and vaguely stern, some instinct stopped him. He'd never seen her look at him quite this way before, but it felt somehow… familiar. His mind spun frantically, trying to make the connection, and finally it clicked. She didn't have whiskers or a protruding snout, but she was looking at him  _exactly_  the way Master Splinter did when he was waiting for Raph to put figure out an important lesson on his own.

_So try, then._

But didn't the fact that he came back here tonight show that he was trying? What was she trying to get at? What more did she…

And before he'd even finished the question in his head, he knew.

* * *

" _Raph?"_

" _Hey. Sorry if I got you outta bed. I, uh, didn't realize it was so late."_

" _It's okay, I was only reading. Is everything okay?"_

" _Yeah, fine. I'm fine."_

"… _Are you sure?"_

" _Whaddya want me t'do, swear on a Bible?"_

" _That's not an answer."_

_Silence._

_She sighed. "Okay…well, come on in. We can watch some TV or something."_

 

* * *

 

" _Why did you do it?"_

" _Do what?"_

" _The whole Nightwatcher thing."_

" _Don't matter. It's done."_

" _Well I know it's done; I'm just curious. You didn't tell anyone—not even Casey. When you started out, did you intend to become Nightwatcher?"_

" _Not really."_

" _How did it happen, then? What made you do it?"_

" _It's…hard to explain."_

" _Sometimes it's easier if you start from the beginning."_

_Silence._

" _Raph?"_

" _Look, will you take a fucking hint and let it go? Jesus."_

"… _Sure. Sorry, I'm not trying to force you to—"_

" _Well it sure as hell feels that way from here!"_

" _Hey, relax! Do you see me holding a gun to your head? You don't have to talk about it if it you don't want to! You also don't have to_ _yell_ _at me."_

" _Right… Um, sorry."_

" _It's okay. But if this list of taboo subjects keeps on growing, pretty soon the only safe topics will be combat techniques, motorcycles, and the weather."_

" _Actually, I'm a little touchy about the weather."_

" _Ah. Does it have anything to do with a secret penchant for rainbows and dewdrops?"_

" _Damn. You know about that?"_

" _Well it IS rather obvious, what with your sunny disposition and all. Might want to tone that down."_

" _I'll keep that in mind."_

 

* * *

 

" _How'd it…how were things today?"_

_He couldn't look at her. "Fine."_

" _I mean…with Don. He was back today, right?"_

_A grunt of assent._

" _And?"_

" _And nothing."_

" _He didn't say anything to you?"_

" _No."_

" _So you guys didn't…talk? At all?"_

" _No. Apparently he didn't have anything important to say to me."_

" _Oh. Well, I'm sure it'll take some time."_

" _Whatever, it's fine. I don't fucking care."_

 

* * *

 

But it wasn't fine. Not at all—not even close. And April knew it. Yet instead of probing further, she'd simply come to him and gently rubbed his shoulders, attempting to ease the tension in his body if not his mind. It wasn't like he'd intended to keep the fact of Don's decision to move out from her—it had more to do with the fear that if he spoke it out loud, it would become too real for him to go on telling himself he didn't care.

That night, for the first time, he'd refused her advances, refused the rapture of physical release and the lingering euphoria that followed as they lay with limbs and bodies entwined. That night, they'd merely held each other. And Raphael had been grateful for the darkness of her bedroom.

Looking back on their time together, it seemed all he'd ever done was put up walls. For all of the allowances she'd made for his behavior, all the times she'd humored his quirks, tolerated his moodiness, bit back her own needs so he never had to go beyond his comfort zone, when had he ever done the same for her? And he saw now, with alarming clarity, that if he didn't start letting her in, he was going to lose her.

Maybe before he'd bolted on her, simply stating he wanted to be with her would've been good enough. But like an idiot, he'd taken off, stepped out her window without an answer, left her wondering if he'd given up, if he was ever going to return. In his absence, she'd had plenty of time to think things over, and a now that he'd returned, an apology wasn't going to cut it. Now, she wanted  _more_. More from their relationship, more from him in general. She was giving him a chance, and he couldn't afford to waste it.

Breaking eye contact at last, Raphael let out a slow, steadying breath before striding deliberately past her to the kitchen table and sitting down with the back of his shell to her. April's eyes followed him as he went by, but she remained standing where she was, waiting. And this time, instead of attempting to figure out what  _she_  wanted to hear, or how to phrase it, Raphael decided to just start talking. It felt a little like jumping off a skyscraper—no chance to back out once he started, and a distinct possibility that he'd land face-first on the pavement—but if there was one thing Raphael was good at it was taking risks. What could he do but make the leap, and hope to catch a handhold on the way down?

He looked down at the kitchen table, restlessly turning his newly reacquired shell cell over in his hands. Then he closed his eyes and stepped over the edge. "When I left here earlier," he began slowly, "I didn't have a clue what I was gonna do next. I was confused, and, and PISSED, even though it don't make sense. At Don, at you, at the world in general…but mostly at myself, cuz in trying to fix things, I'd screwed 'em up even more. An' I kept hearin' the last thing you said, that I didn't have to choose between you an' my family. Cuz I never, ever, in my wildest dreams, even thought that it would come up. We're mutants who live in the sewers, for chrissake—who else would there be to  _choose_? Until we met you… and Casey—" He had to force himself to say his former best friend's name. In fact, it was the first time he'd spoken his name since their final blow-out, and he was sure April was aware of it. Still hurt, though, like a goddamn sledge hammer to the gut.

"—until we met you guys, we only had each other. An' as a kid, I remember thinkin'…that was just the way it was gonna be. Forever. Just me an' my brothers and our father. And maybe that's why…" God, this was hard. Between this conversation and facing The Shredder in single combat, he'd sooner pick The Shredder. But he forced himself to go on.

"Maybe that's why I don't…handle it so good when one of us ain't there." He swallowed hard. "Everything seems off balance, er somethin', like, like showin' up to practice and finding the floor ain't level. Just throws me off. 'Specially when I don't have any control over the situation. Like when Leo left for his big training mission." He hadn't looked at April once since he'd started talking. She was still standing somewhere behind his left shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut and plowed ahead.

"Wasn't like I was surprised he was chosen first, or, or, hurt that he was so eager to go. It's Leo—if Master Splinter told him he'd be a better ninja if he scaled Mt. Everest using only dental floss, he'd do it or die trying. It was just…I couldn't stop thinkin' about how weird it was the last time he went away, when he went to Japan to find The Ancient One. An' even before that, when he…wasn't himself. Looked like the same ol' Leo, once you got used to the chunk a' shell missing, but he was still somewhere far away, if that makes any sense. An' there wasn't a damn thing we could do. Couldn't charge to his rescue, couldn't make him better, couldn't do  _shit_  except wait around—an' that's the part I can't handle. Not being able to  _do_  anything."

He paused, and realized he was squeezing his phone so hard, the tendons in his hand were popping up under the skin. He forced himself to loosen his grip, and went on, unwilling to risk losing momentum. "That's when I start doing stupid shit. When I feel so helpless, even doin' somethin' completely screwed up feels better'n doin' nothing. That's what started the Nightwatcher business. I wasn't tryin' to be a hero. Not even close. If you wanna know the truth," he said more quietly, "I was just lookin' for a way to beat the  _shit_  out of someone an' not end up with a guilt complex over it. Even that was tough, at first, cuz I had to go after the really hard-core criminals—murderers, drug peddlers, rapists…the ones no punishment was too heavy for, or else I'd dish out way more than the crime deserved. I told myself I was doin' some good for the city. But that ain't what got me started. It's only what kept me goin'. Gave me somethin' to do, some kind a' purpose. Made me feel like I was in control, even though the opposite was probably closer to the truth."

His hands were shaking slightly now, just talking about it. He'd never told anyone these things, and this sort of self-analysis wasn't something he ever undertook, even in his own mind. But he owed it to her to try and explain, even if hearing it caused her to change her mind about him altogether. "Maybe things would a' been different if Leo had named me leader when he was gone." He shrugged. "Or maybe not. All I know is that even though I expected Leo to pick Don, even though he was the natural choice, it still hurt when he didn't even fucking  _talk_  to me about it before deciding, didn't give me a chance to tell him that if I was leader, I'd take it seriously, give it everything I had—that I needed  _something_ , or I'd go crazy. But what burned me the most was that I knew Don didn't want the job. Leo knew it, too. And he still fucking picked him." There was a harsh edge to his voice, a bitterness even after all this time, and a huskiness that couldn't fail to impart the emotional toll this was taking on him.

Raph swallowed past the tightness in his throat, gathering himself to continue, and then he heard April move behind him. She walked past the table into the kitchen, and he watched her fill a glass with water. Then she sat down at the table opposite him and wordlessly pushed the glass across to him. He took it and drank gratefully, feeling his throat ease, and his hope rise just at little at the small but thoughtful gesture. At least she seemed willing to hear him out.

He went back to studying the table, turning the glass slowly. "So like I was sayin', I don't handle it well when one a' my brothers is gone, 'specially when it's my fault. Got a taste a' that with Casey, and he's as close to a brother as anyone can get without bein' a turtle. When I found out Don was leaving…" He faltered, and for the first time since he started talking, he failed to find words to express what he felt. Finally he just shook his head. Sometimes silence said it all. After taking a moment to compose himself, he went on. "I know I shoulda told you—every day, I told myself I'd tell you tomorrow. But instead a' makin' it easier, every day made it harder to know how to say it. An' I guess… maybe part a' me was hopin' he'd change his mind, an' I wouldn't have to tell you at all."

"When he showed no sign a' changin' his plans, I just…panicked. Which don't make any sense, cuz it ain't like I hadn't thought about moving out a million times, an' he wasn't talking to me anyway. But the thought of him not bein' around anymore…because of me…I…fuck." He halted again and bowed his head, fumbling agitatedly at the knot of his mask with one hand as he searched for the words to continue. It was getting more difficult now. These feelings where much nearer than the others he'd touched on, but when his eyes ticked up to glance at April's face, she didn't seem annoyed. She just looked intent, and waited patiently for him to continue.

_Don't worry about the words, just move on. Get it out._

He pulled another deep breath.  _Here goes nothin'._  "In some fucked up way, I guess I thought that…if you broke up with me, it would make things even somehow. With Don, I mean. I know it ain't logical, but there it is. Worst thing was, though, I didn't blame him for hating me.  _I'd_  have hated me, if I was in his shoes. You know? So even though I knew it'd kill me not to be with you, in some screwed up, masochistic way, I sorta felt I deserved it, for what I'd done to him, to Casey—even if I didn't plan it." He paused and took a slow drink, holding the cold water in his mouth for several seconds before swallowing. Then he set the glass down and watched the condensation bead up and run down the sides to form a ring of moisture on the table. April had yelled at him a hundred times about the dreaded ring, and he reflexively reached for one of the coasters stacked at the center of the table and placed it under his glass. He wondered if he should get a cloth and clean up the ring, but when he glanced up at April, he figured she would know he was just stalling. He didn't typically show much concern over the state of her wood furniture. He cleared his throat lightly.

"When acting like the biggest fucking prick on the face of the planet so you'd dump me didn't go as planned, I didn't know what the hell I was gonna do, didn't have a back-up plan. So I just took off, hoping somethin' would come to me. And like I already said, I couldn't get your words outta my head—that I didn't have to choose. Because in my mind, I already had. My whole life, it's always been family first, an' I was sure Don wasn't gonna just get over it. I came over meaning to end things, thinkin' after that maybe I could work things out with Don. Trouble was…turns out there's a big difference between makinga choice in your head, an' goin' through with it." He pulled in a deep breath, purposely avoiding any eye contact. "An' I think… I think deep down I  _knew_  I wouldn't be able to, even before I got there. So I set it up so I wouldn't have to—which is probably why I lost it when you called me out on it. Cuz then I was stuck again. I couldn't break up with you, an' I couldn't make things right with Don. It wasn't until after I'd been runnin' rooftops for a while lookin' for some scumbag to take my frustration out on that I…got things figured out."

He didn't explain what had triggered the epiphany, that the first people he'd seen committing anything remotely resembling a crime had been a trio of prostitutes on a street corner, dressed much too lightly for the brisk weather. He'd had no intention of bothering them. Distasteful as it was to him, it wasn't the sort of thing he policed. But he'd paused for a minute, his eye catching on one of them when she'd reached out to accept a cigarette from one of her rather more filled-out companions, and a glimpse of that pale slender arm was all it had taken. Raphael had looked away, suddenly breaking into a sweat as he recalled the feeling of his hands clamping down on April's upper arms, of how fragile she'd felt as he'd slammed her against the wall, of how she'd looked right back at him even as he held her there, stared right  _into_  him, refusing to be cowed even though he could have literally crushed her.

He'd gone to his knees and retched, again and again, though there hadn't been much to expel. He hadn't eaten dinner. In fact, he hadn't eaten much of anything, lately, but that didn't make the effort any less exhausting. He'd stayed there for a minute, heart hammering, trying to recover, and it was when his breathing had finally begun to slow that he'd at last acknowledged the truth.

But Raphael didn't share these details with April just yet—he would later, if she asked, though he didn't look forward to revealing that it was the sight of a drugged out whore that had made him realize he couldn't live without her. For right now, he was just anxious to get to the point.

"See, I was right in thinking I'd already chosen," Raphael continued, eyes fixed down on the suddenly fascinating patterns in the wood grain of the table. "I just got the rest of it wrong." His body became tense, his breathing shallow as he came closer to the revelation that had set the series of events for the rest of the night. After this, there was really nothing more he could say. After this, it was up to her.  _Don't think—don't think about what it's gonna sound like. Just say it._ He tore his gaze upward from the table, and forced himself to meet her eyes. "It was you all along."

For the first time, her expression cracked just a little as she studied his eyes, a tiny wrinkle marring her otherwise smooth forehead. This time, she looked down before he did.

Raph went on, his voice low and husky, hardly daring to hope that he was beginning to reach her. "From the very beginning, it was you. Even when we were jus' hangin' out, I knew things were changing, an' I told myself I had to stop. I mean, um, not that I figured we'd….um, that you could ever… I was mostly thinking a' Casey, an' how I was a horrible friend for even thinking of you that way. But every time you invited me over, even though I knew I should say 'no', I'd hear myself say 'yes.' An' the night you kissed me…I kissed you back. I knew what it meant, even if I wasn't thinkin' of it at the time. I knew it meant everything was gonna change. But I couldn't a' done things any differently.

"And yeah, it'd be a helluva lot easier if Don was okay with it—but I can't control that. I can't  _make_  him forgive me, can't always worry about what everyone else is gonna think a' my choices. I can only do what makes sense to  _me_." He risked a glance up at her face, but she still had her eyes downcast. "An' right now, the onlything that makes sense to me is  _you_."

There it was, his final appeal, and he held his breath as he waited for her response. She seemed very small all of the sudden, with her shoulders hunched and her hands out of sight under the table, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Then she swallowed and raised wet eyes to his, tears spilling over and tracing wet pathways down her cheeks when she blinked.

Raphael's heart froze in his chest, though a moment ago it had been pounding wildly. He didn't breathe—couldn't have drawn a breath if he'd tried. And if she didn't give him another chance, he wasn't sure he ever would again.

Then April brought both hands up to shield her face, pressing the tips of her fingers to her forehead, and slowly shook her head. Behind her fingers her face crumpled, and her shoulders drew in tight with the force of a long-withheld sob.

"April…?" Raph croaked, searching her face almost wildly for some clue as to what she was thinking.

She began crying in earnest then, her face a picture of misery, though she was still trying unsuccessfully to shield it. He half-rose from his chair, torn between wanting to comfort her, and fear that she would reject him if he tried to do so.

She shook her head again, sniffed, and attempted to wipe some of the wetness from her face. Then she looked up at him. "You bastard," she choked out, tears flowing again as quickly as she cleared them away. "You had me doubting e-everything."

And then, miracle of miracles, she reached out to him, stretching one tear-dampened hand across the table toward his. Raph remained frozen for a heartbeat, knowing what it meant but unable to believe it was real, and when he was able to move again, he ignored her proffered hand completely. With the speed born of years of ninja training he was at her side, and she rose to meet him, falling into his arms and hugging him fiercely as she sobbed into his shoulder. He held her as tightly as he dared, and this time his chest tightened with a feeling altogether different from the anxiety and longing he'd felt earlier, enveloping his entire body in a warmth that made it seem almost more vivid than real life, like everything up until now had been a dream, and he was only just now waking up. All he could do was close his eyes and surrender to the moment as he savored the feel of her living body in his arms. After a time her sobs tapered off to shuddering breaths and sniffs.

"I'b sorry," she said finally in a shaky voice, her face still buried alongside his neck. "I didn't—"

"Shhhhh," he interrupted, silencing her. "You got nothin' to be sorry about. You scared the  _shit_  outta me, but I get it."

April nodded against his shoulder, but she kept on talking. "I just…had to know." Her voice was steadier now, marked by only the occasional sniff. "I had to make sure I wasn't the one carrying this whole relationship, that I wasn't just deluding myself into thinking you felt the same way I did. I  _thought_  you did…but when you left and didn't come back for so long, I started going back over everything in my head…and I realized that all of those impressions were based on my interpretations of your behavior, which made me wonder if I was just seeing what I  _wanted_  to see. "

He tightened his arms around her, sensing she needed the release of explaining things even though he asking for any justification.

"So I decided that if you did come back… I had to find out the truth. No more guessing games, no more probing, no more excuses. I had to know you wanted this as much as I did, that you would fight for it—and if you didn't…" She paused, pulling in a shaky breath, and Raph decided he didn't want to hear the rest of that sentence. He'd known it wasn't an act on her part, or a bluff, but he didn't want to think about how close he'd come to losing her.

"I'm sorry," he said, "God, I'm so sorry. You never shoulda' had to go through that. I was a fucking idiot for not comin' straight back here soon as I got things worked out, but all I could think of at the time was finding Don."

April pulled back slightly, and looked at him in surprise. "Finding Don? He stopped by here after you left, and then took off looking for  _you_."

"He found me," Raph affirmed. "Or I found him, I guess. Don't matter. Point is, we talked."

She studied him with wide eyes. "What did he say?"

"He said I was an asshole, an' I didn't deserve you." Raph trailed the knuckles of one hand gently down the side of her face, drinking in the sight of her. "I told him he was right. Told him I knew what a lucky son of a bitch I was, an' I wasn't about to let you go."

Her green eyes were glued to his, flicking back and forth slightly as she waited for more information.

"An' I think he got it. I mean… it's uh, obviously still hard for him, but we sorta reached an understanding."

She let out a breath, and leaned into his embrace once more. "I'm so glad."

"He, uh, sent a message for you, too."

Her body tensed in his arms. "He did?"

"Yeah. Told me to tell you he'd call you."

She pulled back to look at him. "Really?" Her eyes were filling again, and though he hated to see her cry, he knew these were tears of relief.

"Really," he said with a shrug. "I ain't good at making this shit up."

Her face broke again and she hid it against him, though she wasn't crying nearly as hard as she had earlier.

"But, um…maybe you shouldn't get your hopes up."

She remained still for a moment, apparently thinking about what he said, and sniffed. "You, you mean you don't think he will?"

"Naw, I think he meant it—but all he said was that he'd call you. He never said what  _kind_  of call. He could a' meant he was gonna  _prank_  call you, in which case it was really more of a threat. Best to be prepared." He shrugged. "Ninja thing, I guess."

She looked at him, and managed a lopsided and somewhat watery smile, acknowledging his attempt to humor her out of crying even if it wasn't very successful. "Sorry about all the waterworks tonight," she said. ""I'll be better once I've gotten some sleep—I swear."

"It's okay; I don't mind," he said, squeezing her tighter, and he meant it. He'd never been good with displays of emotion, whether his own or someone else's. Usually it just made him uncomfortable, but to his surprise he found there was something unexpectedly gratifying about being able to comfort her, actually comfort her, when she was upset. What he'd told Don was true—April had cried plenty of times since they'd been together—but she'd always fled to the sanctuary of her bedroom when she couldn't hold it in any longer. Until tonight. And it occurred to him that maybe he wasn't the only one who'd been putting up walls.

And granted, it wasn't exactly the same since right now her tears were of relief more than sadness, but just holding her in his arms while she cried, being able to comfort her with his mere presence… it made Raph feel both strong and strangely weak at the same time—strong because she was relying on him for support, and weak because he knew there was nothing he wouldn't do in that moment if she asked. Nothing. If she said it would make her laugh if he rode his Nightwatcher bike through Central Park in broad daylight wearing Mike's stupid Cowabunga Carl suit, his only question would be when to start. He was at her mercy as much as she was at his.

Was that what it was all about, then? A trade-off? Did letting go of some of his stubborn pride, sacrificing a portion of his own closely-guarded independence, make them stronger as a couple?

He had only to look in her eyes to learn the answer. Raph wanted to kiss her then, but before he could act on the impulse, she spoke.

"Are you hungry?"

It took a moment for Raphael's brain to register the question. "What?" It wasn't exactly what he was expecting.

"I said, are you hungry. I mean, I don't know if you've eaten or anything, but I thought maybe we could get some takeout. There's a Chinese place a few blocks away—not the best food, but the egg rolls are decent, and it's open late. So…are you? Hungry?"

Raphael looked at her, taking in the smooth cream of her skin contrasting with the vivid strands of hair that had slipped out from underneath the bandanna, full lips that felt like velvet when they touched him, and her eyes, no longer guarded but clear and warm and open, if still somewhat red-rimmed.

"Starved," he answered seriously.

When dinner arrived, the rice was overcooked and the chicken was rubbery, but neither of them complained. After they'd eaten as much as they wanted, they sat on the couch and took turns opening fortune cookies, making up absurd and far-fetched predictions as to what they might mean. The first one April opened said "A good time to start something new," and Raph said now was her chance to move to Tibet and take up goat herding. Raphael opened one that simply said, "Soon and in great number." He was convinced that it referred to his love life. She thought it more likely it was a prediction of how well-acquainted he'd be with the bathroom after all that greasy Chinese food.

It felt so easy sitting there together, joking and laughing, and in a way it reminded Raphael of the earliest part of their relationship, before any thought of desire or romance had ever crossed his mind. This was how it had all begun—not with lust, but with friendship, as surprising as it was innocent. It wasn't until he'd become aware that his feelings for her were changing that the mantle of guilt had settled over him, causing his stomach to slither even as his heart swelled with wonder and joy every time he was with her. But tonight, at last, the stifling weight of guilt was gone. He still felt empathy, for Casey and for Donatello, but it seemed somehow pointless to feel guilty when he knew that, given the opportunity to do it over, even knowing what was to come, he'd still choose to be with her. A thousand times over, he'd choose her.

Eventually their banter turned more serious, and Raphael found himself opening up to her again, this time without any prompting. It was easier, somehow, perhaps because there was no pressure. That, and April was an active participant this time, her countenance open and expressive instead of closed and guarded. And in spite of the fact that they were barely even touching, Raphael had never felt closer to her.

"I don't want to change you, you know," she said at one point, laying her hand lightly on his arm as she looked earnestly into his eyes.

Even that small contact was electric, sending a tingle through his body and a rush of blood to his groin and all the way through his tail. Never, since the earliest days of their affair, had the barest touch from her evoked such a response in him, but he didn't act on it. Not yet. There was no rush, and anyway there was something intoxicating about the waiting, the anticipation.

"Oh, no?" he said leadingly.

She shook her head. "No. Not who you are, I mean. I don't mind that you're the strong silent type. It's not like I think we need to talk about feelings all the time, or anything. Just… _some_ times. I thought… I convinced myself I didn't need to hear that stuff, that it was just words. But sometimes, I  _need_  the words. You know, now and then." She shrugged, and smiled softly. "A girl thing, I guess."

Her hand tracing down his arm was distracting as hell, but he tried to keep his mind on what she was saying. "Guess I can handle that. I'll just hafta quit writin' so much in my diary. Save some of it for you."

She laughed. "I'd appreciate that. And really, I'm doing you a favor. You won't go through nearly as much ink. I'll bet the pink is hard to find."

As the night wore on, they began to touch more and more, though it was secondary to the conversation—a brush of hands, a bump of knees when one of them shifted positions on the couch, both reassuring and tantalizing. But gradually they found themselves touching more and talking less, and their contacts became more purposeful, more prolonged. Finally the talking ceased altogether, and they continued the conversation begun in words solely with their bodies. They made love right there on the couch, softly, fervently, letting the waves of pleasure build until they were left clinging together in a sea of ecstasy. When they were spent, the sky outside was just beginning to grow pearly with the coming light of day.

To Raphael, the dawn had never looked brighter.

* * *

  
The three had just returned from their warm-up jog through the sewers the next morning when Leo's shell cell rang. By process of elimination, they all knew who it had to be.

"Raph?" Leo answered in a clipped voice, turning his body away to create the illusion of privacy. "You're late; we've already begun warm-ups. How close are you?"

Don knew Michelangelo was trying to catch his eye, but he ignored him and settled on the mat to do some stretching.

Leo frowned and remained standing. "…A  _personal day_? Raph—"

Don kept his head down.

"No. No, absolutely not. You can't just—" Leo's frown grew tighter as he listened. "No, I can't just give you the day off—not without clearing it with Master Splinter first, and I'm sure he—"

The turtle in blue paused to listen again, but if anything, his expression only grew more stern. "Raphael."

Mike sucked in an audible breath at the use of his brother's full name. Evidently Raph was now treading on dangerous ground.

"This is not a negotiation," Leonardo continued, using a controlled voice that told Don he was trying hard to keep his cool. "Unless Master Splinter personally excuses you, I expect to see you here in twenty minutes. That's—"

"Leo, why don't you give him a break?" Don cut in after a moment of dry-mouthed indecision. He almost hadn't been able to bring himself to say it. Though he and Raphael had reached an understanding of sorts, it was still tenuous at best, delicate as the gossamer beginnings of a spider web. Donatello knew that Raph wouldn't have expected him to argue with Leonardo on his behalf. Maybe that's partly why he did it. It didn't make up for everything, but it was a something. A gesture of good will. Another strand to add to the web.

Leo's head snapped around to stare at Don. "Just a second, Raph," he said slowly, and he lowered the phone. "What was that?"

Don straightened and gave a shrug that was meant to look casual. "I said, give him a break. It won't be the end of the world if Raph misses one day of practice—it's not like he misses it very often."  _Or ever, since you got back._  He could see Mike grinning out of the corner of his eye, and he was quite sure that Leo had only stopped his mouth from dropping open in surprise with the greatest of efforts.

Leo looked at Don searchingly for a long moment before raising the phone back to his ear. "Raph?" he said, his eyes still on Don. "Never mind. See you tomorrow morning at training," and he snapped the phone shut.

-=-=-=-=-=-


	16. Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me over 2 years to complete this story, over on ffnet. Thank you everyone who encouraged me, left reviews, and continued reading to the end. If you want more Raph/April, see the other stories in this 'verse: Interludes, Preludes, and Guy Talk. Thanks so much for reading.
> 
> ~KT

* * *

Casey pulled his bike into the parking lot of Graham's Goodtime Grill and sat for a moment before cutting the engine, enjoying the temporary reprieve from the wind of the open road. It was almost summer, according to the calendar, but at this elevation that didn't count for much. As soon as the sun began to creep down, so did the temperature, sometimes still dropping into the 30's even though the days were often warm enough for short sleeves.

The sun was just setting now and the air was already turning brisk, but Casey didn't make a move to enter the restaurant. Not yet. Instead his eyes were following the movements of a dark-haired waitress through the windows as she made her way around the floor, refilling drinks, clearing dishes, and putting in orders at the kitchen. And even though he wasn't close enough to actually make out her face, he knew she was favoring anyone who met her eyes with a smile.

She was attractive to begin with—not drop-dead gorgeous, or anything, not someone who stopped traffic when she walked down the street, but pleasant enough to look at. When she smiled at you, though…it was like the sun came out over her features. She just  _glowed_ , and for a moment in seeing it, you forgot all about your own problems. Wasn't because she was trying to earn tips, either. That kind of automatic, superficial smile was easy enough to see through. Gabrielle…she just cared about people, and when she smiled at them like that, they felt it. Didn't matter if she hadn't gotten enough sleep, or if the diner was short-staffed, or if she was coming down with a cold, or if she'd just been ditched by her asshole "boyfriend", who by the way was married, because she wouldn't agree to an abortion.

Casey's jaw clenched, his hands curling around the handlebars of his bike as he wished for the hundredth time she'd tell him who the creep was. What he wouldn't give to get his hands on the prick…

In moments like this, he knew he was getting too close, that his detachment towards the world at large was crumbling, had in fact begun to crumble from the moment he'd first stepped into the small-town grill.

_"Hey, Cowboy, what can I get you?"_

_Casey stood just inside the door, water dripping from his sodden clothes to form a puddle at his feet. "Just directions to the nearest gas station'll do it." He shivered as ice-cold rainwater trickled down the nape of his neck. God, he was cold. A few degrees lower, and the rain would turn to sleet. "Ran out of gas," he explained._

_She surveyed his waterlogged appearance, and said, "How far'd you walk to get here?"_

_He shrugged. "A mile or two." Or three or four._

_The woman appraised him carefully for a few moments, and finally seemed to reach some sort of decision. "Tell you what—stick around 'til I'm done with my shift, an' I'll give you a lift. No one should be out walking in this," she said, gesturing towards the window._

_"Thanks for the offer, but I can manage. Where is it?"_

_She raised one eyebrow. "The gas station? Five, six miles up the road, on the left. Can't miss it," she answered coolly._

_He looked down and flexed his hands to speed the circulation as they began to prickle with returning warmth. Then looked up to meet her eyes. "I, uh… guess I could stand a bite to eat."_

_"You look it. When's the last time you had a hot meal?"_

_He considered for a moment. "Utah."_

_She smiled and picked up a menu. "Right this way."_

The plan had been to eat and warm up a little, get some fuel for his bike, and hit the road again. But if recent events had taught him anything, it was that life rarely went as planned. When she'd learned it was a motorcycle he was driving and not a car, she'd insisted he stay the night at her place, claiming he was sure to catch his death of cold if he didn't dry off properly. Casey had let himself be talked into it, secretly relieved to have refuge from the miserable weather.

If he'd known what was in store for him, though, he might've opted to take his chances with the weather.

_Gabrielle pulled her truck over onto the shoulder just behind the abandoned motorcycle, and shifted to neutral before yanking up the parking brake, leaving the motor running. She kept her face forward, staring through the windshield at the mountains hunched on the horizon like grizzled old men._

_"Look, I'm sorry I unloaded on you the other night," she said slowly. "I'm really embarrassed. I didn't…I just…felt overwhelmed, you know? I'm not exactly in the best control of my emotions right now," she added with a nervous laugh._

_"Hey, it's okay," he answered, though it had been horribly awkward. He didn't even know this woman, and she'd broken down in tears the previous evening just because he'd offered her a smoke. And that had barely scratched the surface of her woes. "Thanks for, uh, letting me crash on your couch an' everything."_

_"Yeah, no problem." Her eyes switched to his bike, and she stuck her hands in her coat pockets in what he already recognized as a nervous gesture, automatically seeking the cigarettes she used to keep there. When she found them empty, she exhaled and clutched the steering wheel instead. "Well, good luck, Cowboy," she said, turning to him with a wan smile. "I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for."_

_Casey wasn't so much trying to find something as he was trying to lose it, but he didn't correct her. "I told you, I'm from New York City. Couldn't find a single cow there, much less a cowboy."_

_She studied him seriously, eyes flicking back and forth across his face, and shook her head slowly. "No, you're one of the good guys. I can tell."_

He wasn't 50 miles outside of town before he turned around.

_"Casey?" She seemed genuinely puzzled. "What are you doing here? Is everything okay?"_

_"Hey. Yeah, everything's fine," he said, raking a hand back through his hair. "It's just, I realized I'm kinda tired of life on the road. For now, anyway."_

_She looked at him questioningly, and when he didn't continue right away, she glanced back over her shoulder at the waiting customers. The diner was filling up, and she had work to do._

_He followed her gaze, and then met her eyes again. "Look, Gabrielle… I know this is gonna sound crazy, but I got sort of a, a business proposition for you."_

_Her brows furrowed. "A business proposition?"_

_"Yeah. Like I said, I could use a break from the road. Wouldn't mind spending some time in the mountains, only I don't got a place to stay. An' you need some work done on your house." He wasn't being rude; she'd told him as much the other night. "I can't pay much, but I'm pretty handy, so I thought maybe we could work somethin' out. You rent me a room, an' I'll pay you what I can, and make up the rest fixin' up the house. Plus I can pitch in for utilities."_

_"Casey," she answered slowly, her eyes wary, "That's really sweet, but I don't think-"_

_He held out his hands to silence her. "No strings attached. I swear. We'd be like…roommates." When she still looked reluctant, he added, "I can give you some cash up front to cover things for a bit—an advance on the rent. Least I can do after everything you did to help me out."_

_After her breakdown the night before, he knew just how desperate her current situation was. Her late mother had left her the house, the remaining mortgage, and a host of medical expenses, which meant Gabby was living paycheck to paycheck. She was picking up as many extra shifts as she could for now, but that wouldn't last as her pregnancy advanced. Even the current real estate climate was against her—brand new houses weren't selling, much less a fixer upper like hers. Foreclosure seemed inevitable if things didn't change._

_She stared at him for several seconds more, and then looked down, shaking her head slowly. "Look," she said softly. "All that stuff I told you the other night? It was just a, a low point. Happens to everyone. I didn't mean…I wasn't asking for help." She looked up and gave a small, brave smile. "I'll figure something out. You didn't have to come all the way back just because you feel sorry for me. The last thing I want is to be someone's pity project."_

_"I don't-" he started, but at a look from her, he decided to be completely honest. "…okay, maybe I did feel sorry for you. A little," he said. "Kinda hard not to, under the circumstances, you know? But that ain't the same thing as pity. I don't pity you, okay? Just the opposite."_

" _What…what do you mean?"_

_Geeze, did he have to spell it out? "I guess I sorta…y'know, admire what you're doin'," he muttered awkwardly._

_She studied his eyes as if trying to gauge how truthful he was being, and then her brow crinkled slightly and she looked down again, blinking a few times in rapid succession. "Admire me?" she answered unsteadily. "For what? For being gullible and naive? For thinking things would end differently for me, just because I wanted them to?"_

_"No," he said seriously. "For choosin' a tough road, an' havin' the guts to stick with it even though someone else don't agree."_

_"Maybe I just didn't think it through," she said softly, her eyes still downcast. "Maybe I'll find out it's too hard, and change my mind."_

_He shrugged. "Maybe. I ain't one to judge. Made my own share a' mistakes, lemme tell ya. But it don't change my offer. Like I said, it's a business deal. If you say no, I'll be on my way. Find someplace else. No hard feelings."_

_Finally she met his eyes again. "I have to get back to work."_

_He held her gaze for a moment, and then nodded slowly and began to turn away. That was it, then. Part of him, and not a small part of him, was relieved she'd said no. Things were a lot less complicated that way. But before he could take another step, her voice stopped him._

_"I don't get off until after dinner, but there's a spare key on top of the doorframe, left side. Make yourself at home, Roomie."_

_He turned back to face her. "Sure thing, Pardner," he said in his best western drawl._

_She smiled a small, lopsided smile. "See? There's a little cowboy in you, after all."_

He'd been living there for over a month now, and sometimes Casey wondered just what the hell he'd been thinking when he'd turned around and given up the pressure-free life he'd been living on the road for some chick he didn't even know.

Other times, he wondered just what the hell he'd been thinking when he'd driven away in the first place.

_"Here, take a look," he said, leading the way to the bathroom. He flipped on the light as she stepped through the doorway, watching her face as she took in the renovated bathroom, complete with re-finished tile floor, newly caulked shower and bathtub, and a fresh coat of paint over a wall formerly covered in yellowed, peeling wallpaper._

_"Casey," she gasped, stepping into the small space and turning around to look at everything. "You did all of this? Today?"_

_He shrugged. "Wasn't that much. Needs another coat of paint, but I'll do that tomorrow. If ya want, I can even re-finish those," he said, nodding at the basin and toilet. "Cheaper to get the sprays than buy new stuff, if you want a different color."_

_She turned to him, eyes sparkling. "It's wonderful. Thank you."_

_"No sweat. Just keepin' up my end of the contract."_

_She smiled. "I think I got the better end of that deal."_

_Casey flashed a brief smile in return before looking quickly away, and he rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously as he pretended to admire the freshly painted walls. In the silence that followed, he could feel her eyes on him._

_At length, Gabrielle spoke. "Did she appreciate you?" she asked softly._

_Casey looked at her in confusion. "Who?"_

_"The woman in New York."_

_Hearing those words was like a blow to the stomach-knocked the wind right out of him, and for a moment he couldn't even breathe, much less deny the assumption. But how the hell…? He'd never spoken of his life in New York, much less his reasons for leaving, but she'd obviously come to some conclusions on her own. Woman's intuition, he supposed. He refused to believe he was just that transparent._

_"I, uh, I guess so," he stumbled when he was able to get his mouth to work. "I mean, when I like, helped out around the house, or somethin', I know she appreciated it."_

_Her dark eyes held his, searching, like she was trying to see right into him. "That's not the same thing," she said with gentle conviction. "Those are things you did. I asked if she appreciated_ _you_ _. Who you are, as a person."_

_He looked into her eyes until he couldn't stand it any more before dropping his gaze. "I don't know."_

He'd never thought about it before that day, but he'd sure given it a lot of thought since. He believed April had loved him, but he was beginning to question whether she'd ever truly known who he was.

A vibration next to his rib cage snapped his attention immediately back to the here and now, and he fumbled to retrieve his cell phone from his inner coat pocket. Only three people had this number: his mother, Gabrielle, and the guy he'd talked to the other day about the roof tiles. Since the caller ID said "unknown caller", he assumed it was Roof Tile Dude, hopefully calling to tell him the tiles in his barn were the right color, and Casey could take them off his hands cheap. The phone answered automatically when he flipped it open.

"Hello?"

_"Hello…Casey?"_

"Yeah," he answered. His tone was short, but polite. No need to encourage small talk.

_"Casey Jones? From New York?"_

Okay, so probably  _not_  Roof Tile Dude. "Depends," he answered guardedly. "Who the fuck is this?"

There was a sigh on the other end that almost sounded relieved.  _"It's Don. Uh, Donatello,"_ the voice clarified when Casey didn't respond right away.

"Donny?!" Casey answered when he'd found his voice. "Jeezus, man, for a minute there you had me thinkin' you were a cop or somethin'. How the hell'd you get this number? I've only had the fuckin' phone for three days!"

_"Well, I was uh, sort of keeping tabs on some of the major cell phone providers, hoping someone with your name would register. Unfortunately, I didn't fully comprehend just how many people in this country have the name 'Casey Jones.' Every time someone by that name registered, I received an alert. You're the 18th Casey Jones I've called in roughly two months. Five of them were women, though, so at least those were easy to eliminate."_

This gave Casey pause. Seemed like Don had gone to a lot of trouble to track him down. "Whoa. So if Ma hadn't badgered me into getting this thing, you probably never would a' found me, huh?"

There was some hesitation before Don answered,  _"Well…I may also have been monitoring a few other…entities."_

Casey blinked. "Like what?"

_"Well, let's see…I covered most of the major gas, electric, and water companies, cable services, major banks, and um, a few likely magazine publications. But there were too many hits on those to contact all of them, so in cases where other data were available, I weeded out the ones that couldn't have been you based on gender and age."_

By now, he sort of regretted asking. "That's…actually a bit creepy, man. Hope I never get on your bad side."

Don laughed a little.  _"Sorry, I didn't mean to sound like a stalker, but you just kind of…fell off the grid. I didn't know how else to find you. Did you…I mean, were you_ _trying_ _to disappear entirely?"_

Meaning, was Casey mad he'd been found. "No, no," he said, turning his face away from a particularly sharp gust of wind that found its way around the building. "Wasn't like that. I mean, at first I didn't wanna talk to anyone, but the only reason I didn't have my phone when I left town was cuz it, uh, broke." Actually, he'd thrown it out into the street when he saw Raph's name on the caller ID for the hundredth time, and it had been run over by a car. And then a bus. And then another car. At least the poor thing hadn't suffered—the first car had done it in, for sure. "I didn't have any contacts in it written down, so that was that." And the few numbers he did have memorized were ones he had no urge to call.

_"Ah,"_  Don said slowly, as if aware some things were being left out.  _"So where the hell have you been all this time?"_

Casey shifted a little on the seat of his bike. "On the road, mostly. Headed south from New York to escape the cold, an' took up with a group of bikers in Florida who were headed to California. Hung out there a while, then took off solo an' headed up the coast a ways before turnin' east to see the Rockies."

_"And that's where you are now? The Rocky Mountains?"_

"Yep. Goat Head, Colorado."

_"Goat Head, huh? That sounds…interesting."_

"Ain't much here, besides mountains. And cattle," he added as an afterthought. "But it's growin' on me."

_"Gotcha. So where are you headed next?"_

"Dunno. Kinda takin' a break from traveling at the moment. How's, uh, how's everything with you?" he asked, changing the subject.

_"Not bad,"_  Don responded.  _"I mean, different, you know? But they're okay. I, uh, I have my own place now."_

"No shit," said Casey. "That's cool. Still underground, or what?"

_"Yeah, it's in the sewers, a fair distance from the lair. Nothing fancy or anything. Mikey's been calling it 'The Cubicle,' which gives you an idea of the size, but it's big enough for me. I actually just officially moved in. In fact, that's one of the reasons I've been trying to get in touch with you. Once I'm settled in a bit, I wanted to have kind of a housewarming thing—order some food, hang out, play some games, stuff like that. And it'd be cool if you could make it. You know, if you're around."_

"Thanks, man, that's…I appreciate it. I dunno if, you know, I'll be around or anything, but yeah. Thanks."

_"Hey, no problem. It probably won't be for a few weeks, so you can think about it and I'll let you know when we have a firm date. And um…if you don't want to come when everyone else is here, I understand. When you get back into town, I still want you to come see the place. And just to warn you? I'll know when that is, because I promised Mikey that as soon as I found you, I'd give him your number. So you can expect him bug…I mean_ _call_ _you all the time."_

Casey smiled a little, his short laugh forming a puff of vapor in the crisp air. "Thanks for the heads up." Then his frown returned. "So how's…everyone else?"

_"Fine, more or less. Splinter's working us pretty hard, but that's not really anything new. And um, let's see…Mikey's been a huge help getting everything ready at my new place, and Leo's been kind of taking over at the lair as the security system expert. Raph…well, things have been rocky between us, but it's going better now. He helped me do some of the wiring here—understands electric better than Mikey, who still thinks a 'transformer' is a sentient robot. And April…"_

Casey's stomach rolled a little at actually hearing her name, even though he'd known it was coming.

" _We talk on the phone now and then, and she seems to be doing fine, got another commission to track down sthese elusive art pieces for some law firm, or something. So yeah," he summarized. "I'd say things are going pretty well."_

"That's good," was all Casey could say. He didn't know how he felt about it, really. On one hand, it was comforting to hear about everyone after being out of touch for so long. He could almost pretend nothing was different.

Except that everything was.

There was a pause on the line, and Don took an audible breath before continuing.  _"Look, Casey, I don't know how to say this, but…I'm really sorry things went the way they did."_

" _You_  got nothin' to apologize for," Casey managed, his voice gruff. As soon as he said it, he knew he still wasn't anywhere near ready to forgive Raphael. Wasn't sure he ever would be.

On the other hand, until Don called him, he hadn't realized how much he'd missed everyone.

_"I know,"_  Don answered.  _"What I mean is, I'm sorry we didn't contact you sooner. We tried, once we found out what happened, but by then you had already split. April told us that you guys broke up, but she didn't tell us she and Raph…well anyway, they kept things from all of us for quite some time. We all just assumed when Raph was gone, he was off with you."_

Casey shrugged. "Don't matter. I wouldn't a' had my phone anyway."

" _Right,"_  Don said with a note of hesitation _. "I guess I just want you to know that, um, even though you mostly hung out with Raph, that doesn't mean the rest of us don't, uh, consider you a friend. It's kinda weird without you around. So whenever you get back…even if you don't want to hang out everyone right away or whatever, that doesn't mean you can't hang out with me or Mikey. Or Leo."_

Casey half-smiled at the though of "hanging out" with Leo—what the hell would they do, meditate? But he sobered quickly when he thought about the rest of what Don had said. "So they're, um, are they still…?" He couldn't finish the question, much less say their names, and he hated himself for it.

" _Yeah. They're still together,"_  Don answered.

Casey closed his eyes and nodded, squeezing the phone hard. He didn't know for sure whether he was disappointed or relieved, but something was making his throat lock up tight. Fortunately, Don must have taken his silence as encouragement to keep talking.

" _It's not as weird as I thought it would be, though. Well actually, last week during movie night was the first time I was around the two of them together. I thought it was gonna be…awkward, to say the least, but they were actually pretty cool. Probably because they were so afraid of making anyone uncomfortable that they barely looked at one another. Didn't even sit together during the movie. But the thing is…"_  Don halted abruptly.

"What?" Casey asked.

Don hesitated, and then said,  _"The thing is, even when they're trying to act all cool and casual, you can still tell they're crazy about each other. I didn't want to see it, at first…but there it is."_

Casey swallowed hard, and at last found a way around the lump in his throat. "There it is," he echoed. He didn't have any other words.

Don sighed.  _"I'm sorry. I know it's gotta be hard. I just thought, if it were me…it might help to hear that."_

Casey cleared his throat. "It's okay. I'm movin' on, you know? Not there yet, but…yeah. Movin' on."

" _I know what you mean,"_ Donatello answered solemnly.

They both went silent then, and it wasn't until Casey looked up to the diner window again that he realized how dark it had gotten. An elderly couple was just exiting the building, bringing a tantalizing waft of greasy food with them as they shuffled through the door. All at once, the diner looked irresistibly warm and appealing.

"Listen, man, I gotta get goin'. But uh, thanks for calling. And thanks for, uh…just, thanks," he ended lamely. But he figured Donny would get it.

" _No problem. I should get going, too."_

"Hey, good luck with the new place," Casey remembered to say. "I'll hafta come check it out. You know, when I'm around."

" _Thanks. Good luck to you, too. And stay in touch, huh?"_

"Ain't like I got a choice, if you're gonna sic Mikey on me," he answered, the smile on his face apparent in his voice. "But yeah," he continued reflectively. "I'll be in touch."

They exchanged brief goodbyes, and Casey flipped his phone closed and tucked it back in his jacket before dismounting his bike. He blew into his hands to warm them as he made his way to the entrance of his diner, pausing just inside the doorway to bask in the warmth for a moment before proceeding over to the hostess station. A broad woman with weathered skin and a good-natured faced smiled when she recognized him.

"Hi Hon. Stayin' for dinner tonight?"

"Hi Peg. Actually, I—" He was mid-sentence when he spied Gabrielle making her way over, beaming, and the polite decline he'd been on the verge of uttering never made it out of his mouth. "…think I will. Thanks." He  _was_ pretty hungry, come to think of it.

Peg turned to follow his gaze, and her smile deepened when she saw who he was looking at. "I guess Gabby can show you to a table." Then she peered around him at the family that had just entered, and Casey stepped to the side to clear the way as he waited.

"Hey you," Gabrielle said when she reached him. Her smile was even brighter than he remembered. "Glad you finally made it. Did you get lost trying to find the door, or something?" she asked teasingly.

He gave a small half-smile. "I take it you saw me pull in."

"Yeah, like fifteen minutes ago. What was the hold up? Find another damsel in distress out there, or something?"

"Nah. I was on the phone."

"Oh! Was it the guy about the roof tiles?" she asked eagerly.

Casey rubbed the back of his neck lightly with one hand. "Nope. Haven't heard from him yet. It was, um, an old buddy a' mine, actually. From New York."

Her face fell, but she caught herself almost immediately and switched her expression to one of casual interest. "Oh yeah? What's, um, what's going on?"

Casey wasn't fooled. She didn't voice it, but he knew she was already bracing herself for the day when he would announce he was leaving.

_You can't keep doin' this, Case-man,_ he admonished himself. He kept telling himself he'd just finish this next project and then he'd be on his way, but somehow he always found a reason to put it off, and although he only wanted to help her, he worried he was only making things worse for her by staying.

He worried that deep down, his motives in this were purely selfish, that he'd merely seized on her problems as a way to distract himself from his own.

He worried that maybe he was falling in love with her.

"Casey? Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," he answered slowly. "Yeah, everything's okay." And as he looked at her, he felt for the first time since leaving New York that maybe it was.

-=-The End-=-


End file.
